


A Dream That Could Not Last

by clio_jlh



Series: Dream 'verse [1]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-12
Updated: 2009-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 97,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/pseuds/clio_jlh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A Dream That Could Not Last</em> is an AU romantic comedy set in 1939 London, when everyone knew war was on the horizon but no one was sure when or how it would arrive—which made love of all kinds that much more important.  Follow a year in the life of three groups of (mostly) Americans:  pilots who joined the RAF, singers and dancers in a swing music revue, and reporters for BBC Radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Past Is Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As usual there will be plenty of songs along the way to set the mood—just click on the song links throughout the fic and they'll launch in a separate window.  
> This was a big undertaking, and needed a team. If I was the writer/director, then [](http://locumtenens.livejournal.com/profile)[**locumtenens**](http://locumtenens.livejournal.com/) was my editor, [](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**lillijulianne**](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/), [](http://musicforcylons.livejournal.com/profile)[**musicforcylons**](http://musicforcylons.livejournal.com/) and [](http://evil-erato.livejournal.com/profile)[**evil_erato**](http://evil-erato.livejournal.com/) my producers, [](http://dana-kujan.livejournal.com/profile)[**dana_kujan**](http://dana-kujan.livejournal.com/) the actually helpful studio executive; and [](http://ali-wildgoose.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ali-wildgoose.livejournal.com/)**ali_wildgoose** my executive producer who kept the train on the tracks in ways so numerous I cannot list them here.  
> For Mother, who made me watch all these movies in the first place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fire last time.

 

* * *

6 September 1916

"So you're at Cambridge?" the major asked.

Second Lieutenant Simon Cowell shifted in his seat, and wondered why the chair felt so very hard.  It really shouldn't; it couldn't be harder than the chairs at school.  "Yes, sir.  I would have been starting my third year."

"Mmhmm."  The major continued to look through what Simon assumed was his new file.  "Ah, you worked as an office clerk during your school holidays?"

"Yes, sir.  I can use a typewriter and a telegraph."

"You've learned to type?  Unusual for a man."

"My father didn't believe in hiring female typists.  Or I should say, my mother didn't believe in my father hiring female typists."

The major chuckled.  "What sort of office was that?"

"My father is a theatrical agent, sir."

"Hmm," the major said.  "Well, typing _is_ a skill that will be useful to the Army.  No good sending a woman to the front."

"No, sir."

"You won't be at the front, exactly.  More like near it.  Not that we'll be in France for long.  Only another two months to beat Jerry, I imagine."

"So I hear, sir."

"Unless."  The major paused, looked up from the papers.  "Some of these young fellows, they want to get right into the fight before it's over.  You know, get their licks in."  He raised an eyebrow.

Simon stared at the major for a long time, then replied, "I want to go where I'll be the most use to the war effort, sir."

The major smiled, and nodded his head.  "Right you are, son," he said.  "All this rushing to the front is damned foolishness if you ask me.  Raw recruits, no way to run an army.  No way at all.  Sound training is what's needed."

"Yes, sir."

"Now that you've done your basic, we'll be sending you to France in a few days—enough time to say good bye to the family, I expect.   Where are they?"

"Yes, sir.  Hertfordshire, sir."

"Very good.  You're at leisure now; Martin will let you know when to report for transport.  Good luck, Lt. Cowell," the major said, standing to shake Simon's hand.

"Thank you, sir."

That night Simon went out for a last drink with his schoolmates, now fellow junior officers, who all expressed sympathy for his plight.  "Taking one for the Army, Cowell," Ken had said, and Simon had laughed it off, said they were all on the same side, no matter what their work was.  It was only later, when he'd poured himself onto an overnight train headed for Elstree, that he looked at his reflection in the window, and faced his real feelings on the matter.

For it wasn't disappointment.  It was relief.

* * *

6 February 1939

Ryan Seacrest shifted in bed, the first real bed he'd slept in since he'd accompanied the Spanish Republicans out of Barcelona and into exile in France. For the last two weeks they'd run through Catalonia, into the mountains, and over the Andorran border into France; last night was the first night they'd spent in an inn rather than in some kind farmer's barn.  Ryan wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next, now that they'd reached relative safety. His instinct told him that the story was over, but he pushed aside the usual ugly itching feeling for David's sake.  The sun was warm on his back and behind, the sheets having slid down at some point, which reminded Ryan of David taking advantage of the mattress the night before by fucking Ryan into it, anger and frustration and desperation spilling out over them both. 

He stretched, reaching out for David, but felt only linen and a sheet of paper. 

> _Ryan—As you would say, we had a good run.  But now I must go, and you can do us more good by keeping our story alive.  Write the book!
> 
> I ask one more favor—take small David to London, to school.  I'll send a telegraph with details to the American Express in London.  He has his papers but I'm sure you'll be able to talk your way through any difficulties.  You're so good at that.
> 
> We'll see each other again.  Until then, be well.
> 
> David
> 
> _

Well.  At least now he knew what to do next.  A knock at the door could be only one person—he moved the sheets to cover what was necessary.  "Come in."

Small David Archuleta—who had been named after his mother's brother, and _was_ small, though he was sixteen now—walked in carrying a small breakfast tray, his rucksack dangling from one shoulder. "They've all gone," he said, setting the tray on the bedside table.  He poured out coffee, and handed Ryan a cup. "So what now?"  he asked, sitting on a chair near the bed.

"So now," Ryan said, sipping his coffee, "we go to London to put you back into school."

David nodded as he took a roll.  "When do we leave?"

"As soon as I get a shower," Ryan said, reaching for his boxers.

There was a tiny shaving mirror hanging in the bath, and Ryan was a little startled to see himself, unshaven, hair every which way.  He wondered what the boys back in Hollywood would think of his appearance—he used to be such a Beau Brummel, but maybe that's what love, or politics, or both will do to you.  He decided to ask the proprietor to take a picture of him and small David before they go, was glad that somewhere in the film was one of him and David Hernandez, his erstwhile lover. 

He lathered up his chest and arms and wondered why he didn't feel heartbroken.  He'd known David for two years, been his lover for nearly that long, believed in him and his people and his cause, adored his rousing speeches and his olive skin in roughly equal measure.  Was this just his forgotten journalistic distance returning to him at this late date, when he was thinking of gathering his dispatches into a book?  Was it because cause and country had been lost?   Or was it that damn itch, the one that made him eventually tire of the tennis star and the actor?

He turned off the tap and looked back in the mirror.  No use in all this woolgathering; David had made their parting even easier on Ryan by giving him a job to do.  He dressed quickly and went back to small David, who looked up at him, determined as ever.

"All right, David," he said.  "Let's get out of here."


	2. Past Is Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meet cute.

_6 November 1939_

Ryan Seacrest stood out on the deck in the early morning mist, staring out at the ocean, a breeze stirring his hair.  He'd managed to scrounge up a cup of coffee and a roll with a bit of chicken from the kitchen.  There weren't many who were awake—most of the passengers were sleeping off the effects of the night before—but this was Ryan's favorite part, watching the sunrise and waiting for the Irish coastline to come into view.

He'd always loved Atlantic crossings.  When he was seventeen, his spinster aunt had taken him to Europe over his summer holidays, and he felt like Laurie in Little Women.  It was just before the crash and everything was bright and dazzling, like a big party that he was finally old enough to attend. It started on the crossing from Charleston: dressing for dinner every night, palling around with the other young people on the ship, and the dancing!  Crossings were full of possibilities.

This time, though, it was less what he was heading toward than what he was leaving behind.  The first exciting flush of the so-called "New Deal" was over and the States had settled into a grim dreariness, as everyone just tried to hold onto whatever job they'd been lucky enough to land.  Ryan's family hadn't been much affected by the crash, mostly because their money had been in sound banks or bonds and only a bit of "mad money" had ever been in the market.  Seeing all the poor folks in Atlanta and Los Angeles was just depressing.  Sure, there had been poor peasants in Spain during the war, but their situation was exciting and dynamic.  In the States, the misery was just, well, miserable.

Not to mention that in spite of his war dispatches, which had been very well received, NBC still wanted him to do mostly movie-biz stories. When he returned to Los Angeles and reconnected with old friends, he was amazed to see how far they had buried their heads in the sand.  The only ones who seemed to know a war was coming were the communists, who wanted him to recount his time in Spain and the glorious failure of the Republicans, until they learned that the Spaniards were perhaps not as doctrinaire as they might have been.  But what was politics to a noble cause of the people? 

Ryan retreated to a very unfashionable bungalow in Venice Beach to make the Spanish dispatches into a book.  He made grocery money by standing on red carpets at movie premieres with a large radio microphone, ready to talk to Clark Gable or Jean Harlow.  And he still made the dinner party circuit as an extra man, useful for testing how the events in the book would play.  Stories of close battles or war orphans were aces; tales of the struggle of the government to keep itself together, the sort of thing he and David would stay up late talking about, were snores.  _The Grand Lost Cause_ came out in August and did quite well, though it was the height of irony that it was kept out of the number one slot on the best seller list by the newly translated _Mein Kampf_. Twentieth Century-Fox optioned the book for a sentimental love story, creating a character named Linda, a tough female correspondent who falls in love with the David character, which Ryan thought probably got to the truth of the book more than anyone might have expected. But that didn't mean he wanted to stick around in Hollywood to see the finished product or, heaven help him, write the script.  He was no dramatist.

On the heels of the book, NBC's Blue Network asked him to go over to London with the British movie stars who were heading home to fight for their country, and stay to cover the goings-on from the same sort of personal perspective he'd brought to his book.  They'd said they wanted his insight on what it's like to live in a country at war; Ryan didn't reply that Americans would probably be finding out for themselves soon enough. It was a fantastic opportunity, particularly as NBC's Red Network had been offering going home to Atlanta to cover the lead up to December's _Gone with the Wind_ premiere.  Ryan shuddered at the thought.

The ship landed a bit before noon, and the train got him to Waterloo Station around two, just enough time to get to his meeting at Broadcast House.  Ryan's trunks were being sent through to his new flat, but he had his small case with him, the same case he'd lived out of for almost two years in Spain, and while it was worse for wear it had brought him luck.  With the help of a stationmaster he figured out how to navigate the Tube, and was wandering through the halls of the BBC—the BBC!—when he heard voices.

"But why is he coming into our section, if he's a war correspondent?" asked the first voice, low-pitched and irritable.

"He's doing the war from the movie star angle.  Film stars at war, or a city at war, or something."  The second voice was higher pitched, but a bit friendlier.

"Film stars have nothing to do with war, except to raise money and entertain the boys," said the first man.

"What about the film stars who are joining up?"

"Soon they'll be anonymous soldiers.  The story ends when they're no longer entertainers.  Really, is this man covering war, or the lower arts?"

"Did you read that book I lent you?''

"What, the one about Spain?  Yeah, why?"

"Did you like it?"

"Very much, and don't change the subject."

"I'm not," the second man said, and paused for effect.  "He wrote it."

That sounded as good an entrance line as any.  Ryan knocked on the open door, then popped his head around the corner.  "Hello?  Is one of you Nigel Lythgoe?"

A blond man, sitting in a chair facing away from the door, turned.  "I am," he said.

Ryan walked in then, hand extended.  "I'm Ryan Seacrest.  Hope I'm not late."

Lythgoe stood.  "Not at all," he said, shaking Ryan's hand.  "We were just—ah, this is Simon Cowell.  Simon, this is Ryan Seacrest, the Blue Network bloke I was telling you about."

The man behind the desk was dark-haired, handsome in a brutish sort of way, and as he stood Ryan realized he wasn't any taller than Ryan himself, though beefier, with a barrel chest and muscular arms.  He was scowling a bit, though more at Lythgoe than at Ryan.  "Hello," he said in that low rumble of a voice, and Ryan wondered how he could have been in radio for very long, since the older mikes weren't kind to low pitches.  "Looks like you need a new case."

"Oh, this?" Ryan said.  "Took me through Spain all right." 

Cowell's deep-set brown eyes looked him up and down, and Ryan had the strange sense that he was checking him out.  "Really?  I wouldn't think that case would be big enough to fit all of your pomades and potions."

Ryan cocked his head, and stared right back.  "I'd be happy to share, since you certainly could use some," Ryan replied.  "And a better-fitting jacket—it's pulling a bit at the sides there."

Cowell drew on his cigarette, the hint of a smile on his face.  "This is radio.  I'm not dressing to be looked at."

"I can tell," Ryan said. 

"You look like you're dressing for a film camera," Cowell said.

"I like to look nice," Ryan replied.  "Thanks for appreciating it."

"You talk as though I was ogling you, which I was not."

"Keep telling yourself that."  He turned to Lythgoe.  "Which way is my office?"

Lythgoe stared at Ryan, then shook his head a bit.  "Oh, right, it's next door," he said, leading the way.

Ryan's office was the same size as Cowell's—smallish, with a desk and two chairs, a tape machine in the corner, and another small table with a chair just behind the door.  Ryan recognized Joel's things on the smaller table—a photo of his wife, a bakelite ashtray that said "Mt. Airy Lodge" across the bottom in letters made out of pine trees, his portable splicing kit in its little box—and realized suddenly how much he'd missed the fella.  Joel McHale had been Ryan's engineer for some years now, was in Spain with him at the beginning, and had come to London ahead of Ryan to get things set up while Ryan finished up his book tour.  Ryan left his case and trench coat, then Lythgoe took him on the tour of the studios, talking all the while about scheduling and procedures and such, the usual. Ryan spied Joel sitting in with one of the other engineers—a female, unusual but not unheard of—during a recording, getting a hang of the studio.  As they walked up the back staircase, Lythgoe said, "Oh, don't mind old Simon.  Bark's worse and all that."

"I hope you don't think I was out of line."

"No, not t'all.  Don't think many've stood up to him like that straight away; s'good for him."

"He's always like that, then?  It wasn't just 'test the new fellow'?"

"He rather runs over people, because he always thinks he's right."

"So he doesn't listen to reason?"

"No, that's the problem:  he _is_ always right.  Ah, Giuliana, you've returned."  They were back near Ryan's office now, at the desk that sat outside his and Simon's doors.  "This is Ryan Seacrest.  Ryan, this is Giuliana DePandi, the secretary you'll be sharing with Simon."

"Hello Mr. Seacrest," she said with the tiniest hint of an accent, shaking his hand.  She was a bit taller than Ryan in her wedges, and had a gorgeous heart-shaped face with olive skin and big brown eyes, her long brown hair falling across her brow in a perfect wave.  "I loved your book.  I also hate the fascists, you see."

"I do," Ryan replied.  "How long have you been in England?"

"My family left Napoli when I was a girl, when Mussolini…."  She swallowed, then smiled widely.  "My father is a socialist, so," she said with a shrug.

"So.  And please, call me Ryan.  We're all in this fight."

"What fight is that?" Cowell asked, walking out of his office.

Ryan turned to him.  "The war?  Or hadn't you heard about that?  Declared about two months ago?"

Cowell shrugged as he sifted through a pile of phone messages.  "Not your fight.  I didn't hear Roosevelt coming into it."

"Plenty of Americans are coming over to fight alongside the Canadians," Ryan said.  "It's one of the things I plan to cover."

"Ah, the American angle, can't forget that," Simon said.

"Mr. Cowell!" Giuliana scolded.  "Don't listen to _him_."

"_We_ know the truth," Ryan said, winking.

"Truth?" asked a lanky, brown-haired man with an American accent and a scruffy beard.  The female engineer Ryan had seen earlier was with him, a pretty girl with creamy skin and thick, shiny black hair like a shampoo ad.

"McHale!" Ryan said, shaking his hand.  "You're a sight."

Cowell looked up, said, "What is this, Mutt and Jeff?"

"Nah," Joel said.  "Ryan's too short to be Jeff."

Ryan rolled his eyes.  "I guess you've met everyone?"

"Yep," Joel replied.  "This is—"

"Carly Hennessey," she said, extending a hand.  "I'm Simon's engineer, primarily, but I also work on some news programs."

"I'm Ryan," he said, mentally noting her Irish accent.  "Good to meet you.  Always nice to see more women on the technical side."

Carly cocked her head.  "A lot of women journos in America?"

"In newspapers, yes, actually.  And more and more behind the scenes in radio and newsreels."

"Carly is an excellent engineer," Cowell said, "but I believe she's capable of a good deal more."

"Very complimentary," Ryan said.

"Mixed blessing," Carly replied.  "Once you meet his expectations, he raises them."

"I just want you to work up to your potential," Simon said.  "So do you.  It's supposed to be motivating."

"Oh, don't worry, it is!" Carly said, laughing. 

Ryan excused them and brought Joel into their office, where they started talking business—how the facilities compared to Los Angeles, how comfortable Joel felt manning a live broadcast from Broadcast House, how the shows would get to New York.  After a bit, when Ryan saw that Cowell and Lythgoe had left the hallway, he motioned to Joel, who quietly closed the door and pulled his chair closer to Ryan.

"So?" Ryan asked.  "How is it so far?"

"Lythgoe is fine.  Pretty hands-off."

"That's what he said, that he's not our editor."

"Yeah.  Giuliana is great, really efficient, very connected.  I think she wants to be a reporter, but …"

"No one wants to hear a woman's voice on the radio, yeah.  But maybe we can see what she can do with some off-air pieces, give her some experience to go into newspapers or magazines."

"Carly is fantastic, smart, knows what she's doing, doesn't take much too seriously."

"Sounds like an engineer I know," Ryan said.

"That's because we're both Irish.  Now that guy Cowell?" Joel went on, pointing to the wall between the offices.  "Really odd.  Likes the sound of his own voice.  But very well respected around here.  Even feared a little.  Spends a lot of time looking for new talent to put on a weekly show he does.  Very influential on the sales charts."

Ryan nodded.  "Do you think—when I met him, I felt like he was checking me out.  Did you get that vibe from him?"

"I dunno if you can tell with these Limeys, brother," Joel said, "but I did ask one of the engineers, and he said that Simon was 'a known shirt-lifter at Cambridge.'  Which is strange, because wouldn't you think the ones who liked _girls_ would want to lift up their shirts?"

"Yeah, that _is_ strange," Ryan said.  "Well, no use getting obsessed with how weird he is."

"Ryan, you're already obsessed with how weird he is," Joel said.  "I should be angry.  I thought we were finally going to have that affair." 

Ryan chuckled.  "I don't think your wife would like that."

"Actually, she's all for it," Joel said.  "It'll keep me away from the ladies, and she's pretty sure she can take you in a fight."

Ryan scowled.  "How do you start out complimenting me and end up with an insult?"  

"It's a talent," Joel said.

Someone knocked on the door.  "Come in," Ryan called out.

"Since you're new in town," Cowell said, "you might want to come with me tonight.  New revue starting, American girls, probably your sort of thing."

"Thanks.  Love to.  I have early dinner plans—"

"Oh, after that," Cowell said, waving vaguely.  "Giuliana has the details.  Say, nine o'clock?  That should give you enough time to put your evening face on."

Joel raised his eyebrows, but Ryan ignored him.  "Plenty of time.  I hope you'll be dressing appropriately."

"For a man, yes," Cowell replied, and closed the door again.

Ryan leaned across the desk to Joel.  "See what I mean?"

"Yeah, that's—I don't know what that was." Joel pushed his chair back.  "Anyway, I'm going to the symphony tonight—"

"Well, lah-di-dah!"

"—to observe a live remote with their equipment.  What's your early dinner?"

"Fish and chips with small David.  Wanna come?"

"Definitely."

Back in the spring, David Hernandez had wired Ryan with the number of his Swiss bank account, which per his instructions Ryan used to pay the tuition at the international school for his nephew David Archuleta.  As befitted a child of diplomats who'd lived in many countries, including the US for several years before troubles started in his home country, small David had quickly become very popular at school.   He had spent the summer staying with various friends in houses all around Europe.  Now that he was starting his final year at school, Ryan was eager to see how he'd grown. 

He was surprised to see he hadn't—at least, not in stature.  He still was noticeably shorter than Ryan and that was saying something; Joel looked twice his height.  They met up at a chip shop, and Ryan listened happily as David rambled on about his new friends and the summer adventures he hadn't put in one of his many letters.  Small David was still his own mother's son, with old-fashioned old world manners, and faithfully wrote Ryan a letter a week, since Ryan was one of the few people David knew who had a reliable address.

Over treacle tart, small David asked, softly, "Have you heard from my uncle?"

Ryan reached out, putting his hand on David's shoulder.  "Not since June.  He was still in France then, thinking about moving on to Italy."

David nodded.  "I'm going to join up as soon as I'm eighteen," he said.

"Now you sound like your uncle," Ryan replied.

David looked up.  "You can't stop me."

"I wouldn't even try," Ryan said.  "Actually, I met up with an actor on the ship, a Brit coming back to join the Army.  I'm interviewing him tomorrow, and he'd like to meet you.  Will you come to the studio?"

"Will I!" David said.  "I just don't know why he wants to meet _me_."

"You're a celebrity now," Ryan said.  "I made you famous."

"He said modestly," Joel interjected.

David snickered.  "No, I'm not!" he said, leaning out his elbow to bump Ryan's.

"Yes you are," Ryan said, bumping back.  "I get a lot of letters from little old ladies asking to adopt you."

"I'm seventeen!" David protested. 

"But you're so cute!" Ryan teased, and he and Joel pinched David's cheeks with fish-greasy fingers.

"Stop it!" he said, blushing.  "You're worse than my abuela!"

"On that note," Joel said, "I have a date with Toscanini."

"Ha-ha," David said.

"Don't acknowledge the puns," Ryan warned.  "It encourages him."

"And you," Joel continued, "have a date with Simon Cowell."

"Simon Cowell from the radio?" David asked.  "I love his show."

"Yeah," Ryan said, "he has the office next to us."

"Wait a minute."  David's eyes widened.  He leaned closer to Ryan and pointed to Joel.  "He knows?"

"Joel is a deeply strange man," Ryan said, "who thinks show business people are all homosexuals …"

"Artists, too," Joel said.  "And the French, of course."

"… and doesn't seem to care."

"I know I'm a man.  It doesn't matter that you're not."

Ryan scowled.  "Thanks, Joel."

"No problem."

"Anyway," Ryan went on, "I don't have a date with Simon Cowell, because he's obnoxious."

Joel shook a finger.  "You think he's the bee's knees."

"No one says that anymore."

"You're obsessed with him."

"I thought you were on my side!"

"Always.  You could have me killed.  But face facts.  It's like one of those romantic comedies you like so much."

"You like romantic comedies?" David asked.

"I told you, Ryan's a girl," Joel said.  "When you meet, you hate each other, but at the end you get married."

"Good-_bye_, Joel," Ryan said.

"All right," Joel said, rising.  "Don't listen to me.  But you know I'm right."

As Joel walked away, David said, somberly, "If you like this fella—I'm sure Uncle David wants you to be happy."

"Oh, not you too," Ryan said, tossing a napkin at David's head.

* * *

Simon Cowell walked up the steps from the Tube station two at a time, still annoyed.  He'd been annoyed all day—first, with cheap-as-chips BBC and NBC for sticking this American hybrid (war? entertainment? not the same, no matter what filmmakers think) next door to him; second, with Nigel for lending him the book without telling him the significance of its author; third, with Seacrest himself for being a quick _and_ intelligent pretty boy (who could possibly be like that?); and finally, himself, for reacting as he had, when it was just a bit of flirting.  Simon flirted all the time, and while he liked to be pleasantly surprised—it was one of his favorite things—this being knocked sideways business was for the birds.  Surely he was not old enough to be an old fool for a spastic, egotistical young pup like Seacrest.  Could his tie be wider, his single-breasted jacket more fashionably cut?  And he had so many petroleum products in that wavy light brown hair of his that he was a walking fire hazard. Simon had been telling himself all afternoon that he'd invited Seacrest out this evening to establish his own superior position—this afternoon had been a fluke, surely, and he would easily regain the upper hand.

Simon had rung ahead and left Seacrest's name at the door along with his own.  The patrons for the earlier show were walking out, so Simon sat at the bar and ordered his usual manhattan.  From here he could see the club to full advantage.  It had previously held a long-running show that toward the end had fallen quite out of fashion, attracting more visitors from the country than from town.  A new show, especially one that featured that particular sort of American music that one could hear in Paris, was like a breath of fresh air.  The club had been entirely redecorated in silver and cream, like a film set, very elegant.  Those leaving seemed well satisfied, but then, so many opening night tickets were comped and the critics, like Simon, preferred the second show.

"Hey brother," said a voice, accompanied by a slap to the shoulder.  Simon turned, and there was Seacrest, dapper in a black suit, grinning.  His hair, which had been left to blondish waves this afternoon, was slicked back, even more carefully shellacked into place.  "What's your poison?"

"What?"

"What are you having to drink?" Seacrest asked slowly, as though Simon was four.  The bartender, a quite large colored man in a white dinner jacket with black bowtie, ambled over at Seacrest's signal.  "I'll have a whiskey, one ice cube," he said.

"Would you like a bourbon, sir?" the bartender asked, in a southern American accent.

"You know, I would!  Say, where are you from?"

The bartender poured out a glass and replied, "Alabama, sir, born and raised."

"Well!" Seacrest said.  "I grew up in Atlanta."

"I could hear that in your voice, sir," the bartender replied.

"Call me Ryan," he said, extending a hand.  "What is your name?"

"Ruben, Mr. Ryan, sir," Ruben said, shaking Seacrest's hand.

"Not Mr. Ryan," Seacrest said, and Simon was surprised to hear the sudden steel in Seacrest's voice.  "We're not in Atlanta."

Ruben and Seacrest stared each other down, until Ruben said, softly, "No, Ryan, we're not."

Seacrest nodded.  "And this is Simon Cowell."

Simon shook Ruben's hand.  As the bartender walked away, a girl came up to lead them to a small table at the edge of the dance floor.  "What was all that about?" Simon asked as they sat down.

"Let's just say that there's a reason my sister and I were sent away to school in the north," Seacrest said, "and don't live in Atlanta as adults.  I'm surprised my father hasn't been run out of town on a rail by now."

"For what?"

"Oh, for giving legal advice to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, among other things."  Seacrest took another drink, then said, "They said we had a little too much affection for colored folks.  Only, they weren't that polite about it, if you know what I mean."

Simon couldn't think of a response to that—he didn't, actually, know what Seacrest meant—but he was saved by a very small woman approaching the table, wearing a white feather-trimmed coat that seemed to float around her body.  "Now which of you is Mr. Cowell?" she asked.

"Miss Abdul, I presume," Simon said, rising to shake her hand.  "I'm Simon Cowell."

"Thank you so much for coming," she said, smiling broadly.  "And who is your—my stars, is that little Ryan Seacrest?"

"I wondered if you'd recognize me," Seacrest said. 

Simon scowled.  "You two know each other?" he asked. 

"Miss Abdul gave me my very first interview, when I was a young radio reporter, just arrived in Los Angeles," Seacrest explained.  "And then she left for New York, and my producer always said it was because of me!"

Miss Abdul laughed.  "No, no, there's just more opportunity for a Jewish dancer in New York than in LA," she said.  "But you've done well for yourself since then."

Seacrest just shrugged, which made Simon want to smack him in the head.  Smug bastard. 

Miss Abdul turned back to Simon.  "We're so pleased you're here, Mr. Cowell, I can't tell you," she said.  "I hope you enjoy the show.  We've been told you have very high standards."

That was more like it.  "I'm always ready to find something enjoyable," Simon said.

"Our show is more than enjoyable!  If you need anything, anything at all, just ask," she said.  Then she floated off to another table in a swirl of feathers.

As they sat down, Simon said, "So do you know everyone in London then?"

"I didn't think I knew anyone," Seacrest said.  "Well, except a few reporters who were on the continent when I was there."

"Just one of those sorts that makes friends wherever he goes?"

"Of course.  Gotta go along to get along, you know?"

"No," Simon replied.  "I don't know." 

Seacrest cocked his head, but then the lights changed for the show.  Simon pulled his little notebook and pen out of the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and sat back, prepared to be unimpressed. 

The band sat in the back of the floor slightly offset from the middle, the usual set up for jazz music that didn't use strings.  Most of the musicians were colored, including the bandleader, a heavy set man who, unusually, neither played the piano nor conducted, but stood in front of the band playing an upright bass.  The combo was smallish—drums, bass, piano, two reeds, trumpet and trombone—but it put out a full, strong sound. The music started up and two rows of tap dancing girls came out from either side of the band, their backs to the audience.  They had on long coats, not unlike the one Miss Abdul had been wearing, only without the feathers, so their legs were hidden—and really, Simon thought, what was the point of chorus girls if one couldn't see their legs? One row sported platinum wigs, the other brunette, of the same curly style, and it was just like the movies as the two lines wove together to make one row of about twenty girls.  Simon sighed; he'd really been hoping this revue would be less derivative of Hollywood than the rest.

Then the girls turned, all at once, and Simon was shocked.  For the girls in platinum wigs were all colored girls; the ones in brunette wigs, white girls, and they were dancing together, their arms around each other's waists.  As they turned, they threw off their coats, revealing short dresses in the usual chorus girl style, all silver and black, nipped in at the waist with double-breasted rows of buttons.   _I can't give you anything but love, ba-by_ they sang, moving about the stage in remarkable unison, yet in a style Simon had never seen before.  It wasn't like the movies, or Broadway, or even the shows he'd seen at the Cotton Club during trips to New York, but a blend of all three.  The girls would stop and make little tableaus before breaking apart again, using the whole breadth and depth of the stage; a real spectacle without being gimmicky.  Then, from behind them, came three girls, two colored and one white, who were singing in harmony, like those American sisters:  _it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing_ and it wasn't just the singers swinging, but the dancers, even the band standing up and moving with their instruments, until the whole room seemed to be pulsing with a hot jazz beat.  The music continued through fifty minutes of quick changes, including a down tempo solo from one of the singers and another big number at the end.  The crowd jumped to their feet, cheering, and Simon had to join them. 

When they sat down again, Seacrest signaled for the waiter, motioning for another round, then said, "So, you liked it?"

"_Loved_ it," Simon replied, making a few more notes in his book.  "You sound surprised."

"Well, I listened to your show this afternoon—"

"I was doing those people a favor," Simon said.  "They should go back to Birmingham and become accountants.  It was like being at one of those dreadful concerts of the bands they form at coal mines."

"—and Giuliana got me some of your older shows from the library.  You're pretty harsh."

"I have high standards," Simon replied, putting his notebook and pen away and pulling out his cigarette case.  He opened it, then offered one to Seacrest.

"Thanks," he said.  "All the better then, I guess, when you do like something."

"Precisely," Simon said.  "Are you saying you have standards, too?  Because I wouldn't know it to look at you."  He lit up, and then offered the lighter to Seacrest.

"Oh?" he replied.  "You certainly spent a lot of time during that show looking at me."  He held on to Simon's hand, to keep the flame steady as he lit up, but looked straight at Simon, gray-green eyes squinting in the smoke, and Simon forgot to breathe for a second. 

He cleared his throat. "Someone's got a big ego.  I was watching the performers."

"Sure," Seacrest said.  "So you're going to give them a rave?"

"Of course," Simon said.  "But I'll do better than that."

"I didn't know there was anything better than a rave from Simon Cowell."

"I'm going to ask them to perform on the show," Simon said.

Ryan raised his eyebrows.  "From here or in the studio?" he asked as the drinks came.

"Dunno.  Depends on what they'd like to do.  Cheers," Simon said, and they clinked glasses.

The band was still playing and the floor was starting to fill with fox trotting couples.  Simon sat back in his chair, watching Seacrest watch the floor.  Seacrest's handsomeness lost something in profile, Simon was meanly happy to note.  His eyes were a bit small, so their color didn't come across; his nose was surprisingly snub from the side, and his hint of a double chin more noticeable, though the jaw itself, very strong.  But his ears—they were oddly sculptural, folding out and in and out again, not sticking out really, but more three-dimensional than most, and Simon had to keep himself from reaching a finger up to trace them.

"You're doing it again," Seacrest said, turning to smile at him.

"Not again," Simon replied.  "But if I'm going to be accused of something, I may as well do it."

"And?"

"You're no Barrymore," Simon said.

Seacrest scrunched his nose.  "I know—it's not a good profile.  And you're sitting to my right, on my bad side, which proves that I'm not the one with the ego." 

"You are, because you even know which is your bad side."

"That's called living in Hollywood, where you can tell how the movie stars feel about you by whether you are seated on their good or bad side at dinner parties."

"And what does it mean, to be seated on someone's bad side?" Simon asked.

Ryan grinned.  "Well, it depends.  If you know them well, it means they're comfortable with you, and don't feel the need to impress you.  Or, if you don't know them well, and they don't feel the need to impress you, it means that you aren't significant.  But when that's true, you're usually not next to them, but a bit down the table.  Or, they might be making a show of it, that they are unconcerned with their looks and want you to listen to what they have to say, which is usually the final step in their flirtation with you, whether professional or personal."

"That's somewhat overly complicated."  Seacrest shrugged, so Simon added, "What does our placement at this table signify?"

"As you've pointed out, I'm not a movie star."

"But if you were?"

"Well, if I were, I would be sitting over to the corner, so that everyone in the room would be on my good side, and so I could look like I didn't want to be bothered, but actually be visible and accessible."

"Good lord, that's ridiculous."

Seacrest grinned.  "Isn't it?  Entirely ridiculous, that's why it's great."

"Too much effort if you ask me."

"You _would_ think that."

"One either is good looking or isn't.  No sense in gilding the lily."

"So you're a lily?"

"If you think so."

Seacrest stared at him, puffing on his cigarette, and then said, "Maybe."

Simon just stared; he honestly did not know what to say, and he could feel himself getting a bit hot and prayed he wasn't blushing.

"Mr. Cowell?  What did you think?"

Simon looked up and saw Miss Abdul, who had now changed into some kind of silvery shiny dress, as though she were a mermaid or one of those salt shakers shaped like a skyscraper. Like the long coat from before, the column effect made her look longer than she was. A man came up behind her and placed a chair at their table, and she sunk into it gracefully, and put her hand on Simon's.

"I saw you standing, Mr. Cowell.  You can't fool me!" 

"I wouldn't even try to," Simon said.  "I thought it was fantastic!"

"Really?  Oh, this _is_ wonderful!  Thank you!  Tell me, what will you say on your show?  Nice things?"

"Actually, I'd like to have your singers on my show sometime next week, if that's possible."

"Possible!  Of course it's possible!"  She took Seacrest's hand, too, and leaned in, inviting them to lean closer to her as well.  "Would you like to come backstage and meet them?"

"Thank you, I would love that."

"Excellent!"  They rose, and moved through the throng of dancers.  As they passed the bandstand, she signaled to the bandleader, who put his bass on its stand and came down to meet them. 

"Randy Jackson," he said, shaking Simon's hand.  "Real pleased you came to see the show, Mr. Cowell.  Looked like you enjoyed it from where I stood." 

"Loved it," Simon said.  "Oh, this is my colleague, Ryan Seacrest."

"Seacrest, you work for NBC, right?  Spanish book?  Why're you in London?"

"The war," Seacrest replied.

"Yeah," Jackson said, shaking his head.  "Can't decide if that makes it a good time or a bad time to open a show, but hey, nothing's happened yet."

"Randy handles all of the music," Miss Abdul said, "and I'm the choreographer."

"Very inventive, both of you," Simon said.  "Choice of songs, the flow of the show, all of it.  But, may I say a few things?  As someone who loved the show?"

"Um, of course, we'd love to hear what you think," Miss Abdul said.

"Lovely.  I think, before the slow number with that tall very curvy colored singer—"

"Jennifer Hudson," Miss Abdul said.

"Miss Hudson, yes. I think you need a mid-tempo number before that, as the change was a tad jarring."

"Oh," Jackson said.  "We could do that."

"And when the other singer, the fast number?"

"Katharine McPhee," Miss Abdul said.

"The other girls were dancing so close to her, it was hard to see her at some points.  Bit confusing."

"Well, we don't want that," Miss Abdul said.  She paused, and then asked, "Is that all?"

"Yes, Miss Abdul," Simon said.  "That was all."

"Oh!  Well, let me take you back and meet the girls.  And please, call me Paula."

"And I'm Randy," Jackson said.  "Can't get used to this British formality, man."

As Randy and Paula led them further backstage, Seacrest leaned over and whispered, "That was very constructive."

Simon turned to him.  "I'm always constructive."

Seacrest cocked his head.  "Cowell.  I've listened to your show."

"Sometimes the most constructive thing one can say is, quit show business. But when an act is very good, then they can hear the more advanced critique that only I am willing to give to them.  We none of us are perfect, Seacrest, including you and me."

"Ain't that the truth," he replied.

It had been about twenty minutes since the end of the show, so the dancers had calmed down somewhat.  Most of the girls were out of costume and wigs but not makeup, sitting around in robes and mules, hairnets still on, smoking and laughing. 

"Girls," Paula announced, "this is Simon Cowell, the radio critic, and he wanted to come backstage and let you know what he thought!"

All the talking stopped, and the girls turned and stared at him.  Clearly, they had the appropriate level of respect for him.  He paused, and then said, "I _loved_ it!"  The girls burst into cheers, as well they should, and the soloist Miss McPhee rose from her chair and walked toward him. 

"Mr. Cowell," she said.  "I can't tell you how wonderful it is that you liked my work."  She took him by the arm.  "Here, let me introduce you to the other girls."  As she pulled him away, he thought he could see Seacrest, leaning against the wall, shaking his head.  But he didn't care about _that_.

After a while of this—Miss McPhee was eager to make a good impression, Miss Hudson was alarmingly direct, and the third soloist, Miss Locke, was a confident one who seemed to take his comments with a grain of salt—Simon had had enough, and looked around for Seacrest.  Last he'd seen him, he'd been talking to some of the dancers (right, like he really wanted to make time with any of those girls) but he was nowhere to be found now.  Well, it wasn't as though they were on a date.

Simon excused himself and wandered back out to the front.  The band was taking a break, and Seacrest was at the bar, talking to Randy, Ruben and the musicians.  He turned, and, seeing Simon, beckoned him over.

"Hey man," Randy said, "we were told you'd know a good after hours club.  We haven't found anyplace so far that really jumps, you know what I mean, man?"

Seacrest shrugged.  "It's your town, Cowell."

"Well, this isn't Harlem, but I do know of one place," Simon said.

"Solid!" Randy said.  "We have one more set to do, if you can wait for us."

"Of course," Simon said.

"All right, fellas," Randy said, and the boys put down their glasses and wandered back to the bandstand.

Simon hopped up onto the stool next to Seacrest, and accepted his offer of a cigarette and a light.  "Why aren't you out there dancing with some pretty girl?" he asked.

"Why aren't you?" Seacrest asked back.

Simon glanced around the room.  "I'm not inclined, and you didn't answer my question."

"Look, Cowell," Seacrest said, low, so Simon had to lean in to hear.  "I know about you.  And you've probably guessed about me.  So let's just drop the pretense, all right?"

Simon pulled back, and found Seacrest meeting his look, and he realized that was the thing about this man:  he looked entirely ridiculous, he truly cared about superficialities, he was clearly an insane romantic, and yet at the core was something stubborn and unmovable. This was a heretofore-unknown combination.  "All right," Simon replied.

"Next time maybe you can take me someplace where you would be inclined to dance.  That is, if you _do_ dance."

"I have a very good fox trot," Simon said, grinning.

"I look forward to seeing it," Seacrest said.

They sat mostly in silence after that, listening to the band and watching the dancers, and then Simon said, "So you'd rather talk to the band than the dancers?"

Seacrest chuckled.  "That was your show," he said.

"Ah, you like to be the center of attention?"

"Only sometimes.  My job is to make interesting people feel comfortable enough to talk to me, not be the interesting person.  At least, most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"Well, extra man at dinner parties, you must know how that goes."

"Er, yes," Simon replied.  "I do.  But come now, Seacrest, I've seen your ego already, and I've only known you a day."

"You're projecting," Ryan said.  "You're the one whose radio show is really all about _you_." 

"And you're the one who wrote a book that was supposedly about a civil war but was actually about you falling in love."

That brought him up short.  "Um, I thought you liked the book."

"I did, but it wasn't about a war.  It was about ideas, or speeches, or the fortitude of the peasants or something.  But it wasn't about war."

"And you know because?"

"I fought in the Great War, yes, and while I wasn't on the front lines, I was certainly close enough to know that having bombs flying over one's head is anything but exhilarating.  Or at least, it doesn't make one want to snog, and you and that bloke David were on the verge of kissing in every chapter."

"Actually, as it happened, we were kissing.  I mean, at the time."

"Oh," Simon said, surprised.  "It reads more like hero worship in the book.  Definitely one-sided."

"Well, I couldn't write about _that_ part," Seacrest said.  His ears had taken on a decidedly red color.

"And are you still—"

Seacrest shook his head.  "I don't even know for sure where he is.  Somewhere in France, I think.  But his nephew is here in London, at school."

"Oh, small David, yes.  He was a bit, er, precocious."

Seacrest laughed at that.  "He is, but most people adore him.  He's the one readers ask me about, not his uncle."

"I'm not like other people," Simon said.

"You can say that again," Seacrest replied.  "Oh, they've finished."

Later, Simon didn't remember much about the after hours club, except that Randy and his mates approved.  The girl singers came along, and a few of the dancers, and there was more music made, a great deal of improvisation, and much more whiskey drunk.  Seacrest was next to him all night, sitting quite close in the crush of the small club, and his thigh was warm against Simon's, and it was all fuzzy and nice.  They finally called it a night around two, leaving the musicians to their own devices.

Autumn had arrived and the air was damp and cool, which sobered Simon up a bit.  They sunk down into the back of the cab, and Seacrest sat so their knees brushed against each other.  "Seacrest," Simon said.

"Mmm?"

"You've been sitting on top of me all night."

"Have I?  M'sorry," he said, but didn't move.

Simon turned, and Seacrest was looking back at him.  He noticed how Seacrest often sat with his lips just slightly apart, and those lips weren't full like a woman's, but so lovely and curvy, and the stubble around them made them stand out, soft, and then they were … moving?

"I bet you want to kiss me now," Seacrest whispered.

"What?" Simon said.

"S'ok," he answered.  "I want to kiss you too."  He smiled.  "But we're in a cab."  He frowned.

"Quite," Simon said, not able to think of something else to say.

The cab slowed.  "'Ere's yer first stop," the cabbie said.

"Thanks for taking me home," Seacrest said, sitting up.  "I'll collect that kiss tomorrow."  He climbed out of the cab, shutting the door behind him, and leaned in the window.  "Oh, and since we almost, you know," he said, glancing at the cabbie and then back at Simon, "you should call me Ryan."

Simon blinked.  "Good night, Ryan."

"Good night, Simon," he said, stepping back to let the cab drive away.

As they went down the street, Simon realized what Ryan had just said—collect that kiss tomorrow?  Surely he wasn't serious. 

Though, as he stumbled into bed, Simon couldn't help but hope that he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Lady Eve_ (dir. Preston Sturges, 1941) is a romantic comedy starring Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda. I'll say much more about the larger significance of these titles in the end-of-story commentary.
> 
> WWII started 1 September 1939 when Hitler invaded Poland. Britain and France have declared war on Germany, but nothing has happened yet. This "Phoney War" is still going on when this story begins. I'm not going to even try to explain the big swathes of history that set up this story, because it would be longer than the story itself! Instead, these notes will explain smaller references throughout the story.
>
>> _The only ones who seemed to know a war was coming were the communists, who wanted him to recount his time in Spain and the glorious failure of the Republicans_
> 
> The Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) was a conflict between the Fascists, lead by Franco, and the Republicans, who became an international communist cause. Many idealistic leftists flocked to Spain to join the Republican cause, but the Fascists had help, and they won.
>
>> _NBC's Blue Network … NBC's Red Network_
> 
> Until the 60s, NBC had two networks, but later the government forced them to break up, and the Red Network became ABC.
>
>> _"Hello," he said in that low rumble of a voice, and Ryan wondered how he could have been in radio for very long, since the older mikes weren't kind to low pitches. _
> 
> Simon wouldn't have sounded all that great on the radio in the 20s. Music of the 20s tended to be about higher voices because the first microphones, for radio and for recording, had a difficult time picking up softer or lower tones. By the 30s, however, technology had improved, and the "crooning" style started by Bing Crosby, where a lower voice sings intimately into the mike, became all the rage.
>
>> _"They said we had a little too much affection for colored folks. Only, they weren't that polite about it, if you know what I mean."_
> 
> Ryan is referring to [this term](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=nigger%20lover&defid=2431169). 


	3. Adam's Rib

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies arrive.

_7 November 1939_  
   
Kimberley Locke looked out over the railing of the balcony, past the garden at the buildings beyond, and couldn't quite believe that she was in London.  London, of all places!  New York had been strange enough, or really Harlem, with its brick buildings so close together, hubbub on 125th street even late at night.  But London was quieter—even the people seemed to all be whispering.  Kim had never been out of the country before, but now she had a passport with a work visa and a steamer trunk with a sticker on it that said "Queen Mary, Southampton."

They'd only been in the country for two weeks, having done most of their rehearsals in New York.  Kim had been living in Harlem for two years, building a pretty good career singing jingles on the radio and in the chorus at some second-rate nightclubs.  She lived cheap, in a boarding house, to save as much money as she could.  The other girls thought she was sending her pennies home to Tennessee, and she let them think it.  Few knew that her family had always been comfortable, that her daddy was a doctor in Nashville, and that she'd gone to college; the money was being secreted away for law school.  But she loved singing, and it was more lucrative and more exciting than teaching school.  Her young uncle lived in Harlem working as a reporter for the _Amsterdam News_ and Kim was sure that otherwise her parents would never have let their baby go off and sing.  But he knew everyone in town and he was good for a meal once a week or so.  He also pulled her into his political activities, a subtle reminder of what her family expected of her once her singing adventure was over, particularly in matters of marriage.

It was her uncle who'd heard about this new show that Miss Abdul and Mr. Jackson—who'd quickly become Paula and Randy to her—were going to put on in London.  The multiracial cast made a lot of girls, black and white, skittish, as did heading to England when so many thought there would be war soon.  But the show simply couldn't go up in New York, or Chicago, or probably anywhere in America.  Kim finally had a lead in a revue, so she was determined to go, war or no war.  
   
The three lead singers shared the large, sunny room with its tiny balcony on the second floor of the house Paula Abdul had rented for the ladies of the company.  Like many London townhouses, the kitchen was in what Kim would call the cellar, though it had a separate entrance in the front and a doorway to the back garden.  The Studdards had their rooms "below stairs," as did the seamstress and the vocal coach for the company.  The first floor had a dining room, a study, and a large living room with a piano.  Paula had a large bedroom at the other end of the hall from Kim's, and the dancers shared smaller rooms on the second and third floors.  Randy and the band had rooms in a house nearby, though before each show they all had dinner together around the large kitchen table downstairs. 

Kim sat back in the chaise and lit a cigarette, and listened to Jen and Kat talking as they came out to join her. 

"I thought it was lovely of him to sit and talk to us like that.  Such good advice!"

"_I_ thought he was an ass."

"Jen!  Language!"

"Please, Kat.  I've never seen anyone so full of themselves.  He talked to us because he likes to hear the sound of his own voice."

"Kim?  What did _you_ think of Mr. Cowell?"

Kim rested her bare feet on the balcony railing.  "I thought he was just another critic," she said.  "You know, he was fine, he had things to say, some of it was smart, some of it not.  Just take what sounds right, forget the rest, and remember what Paula says."

"Hold on to your magic," Kat and Jen said in unison.

"Last night was fun, after the show," Kim said.

"Wasn't it?" Kat replied, and she and Jen were off on a new, less emotional topic.

Not that Kim could dismiss Simon Cowell so easily, either—the man got under your skin.  But she preferred to remember him not from when he held court backstage, but when he sat in the after hours club, laughing with them, and applauding one of Kim's songs.  He'd left with that other reporter fellow in tow, and Kim wondered if he was _that_ kind.  She wouldn't be surprised; it would explain why he was less of a lech than the usual. 

"What do you think of the boys in the band, Kim?" Kat was saying.

"Me?  Oh, they're all right I guess," she said.

"All right?" Jen asked.  "Some of them are damn good looking.  I just wish the band was bigger."

"They have a big sound," Kat said loyally.

"Oh, I know you don't care, Kat, because the band is all colored, but a bigger band means more men!"

"And that means more trouble," Kim said.  "Especially with the dancers."

"I can handle myself," Jen said, shaking her shoulders.

"I know you can, honey, but what about that little Camile who was all over Corey?"

Jen made a dismissive "hmph" and said, "Trumpet players are always bad news.  The fun kind of bad news, which makes him even worse.  I have been there, and I am _not_ going back."

"They say that the devil is a charming man," Kat said.

"But those Smith cousins, now, those are some _men_."

"What about you, Kat?" Kim asked.

"Oh, maybe I'll get carried away by an earl, or a lord, or a duke, or a baronet."

"Isn't that what's on the end of a gun?" Jen asked, winking at Kim.

"That's a bayonette and you know what I meant Jennifer Hudson!" Kat said, hitting the girl on the calf with one of the small pillows from her chaise.  "I wish there were some princes around.  I'd love to be Queen." 

"The Queen of England can't be a Catholic, Kat, so it's just as well."  Kim stubbed out her cigarette.  "I'm gonna to go wash up.  Cast dinner in an hour, you'll see the Smiths again then."

"The nice thing about being in a show and dating the band," Jen said, adjusting her hair net, "is that your hair is always done." 

* * *

Sgt. Amanda Overmyer fidgeted in her seat.  Her dark brown hair was pulled back and tucked under her cap, her dress uniform perfectly pressed, her pumps polished to a high gloss, but she wore it all with the discomfort of the confirmed tomboy.  Oh, she knew _how_ to behave like a lady, even if she hadn't been called upon to do so in years; she'd been very well trained at a young age.  But that didn't mean she _liked_ it much, and she couldn't wait to get to the base and change into boots and coveralls.

"Sit still," said Pilot-Officer Chris Richardson, who sat opposite her.  _He_ looked comfortable enough in his dress uniform, but then, Chris was the sort of fellow—tall, slim, broad-shouldered, handsome in that all-American way—who looked comfortable in anything.

Amanda scowled, though she was too cute, with her round cheeks and bright blue eyes, for it to have much effect.  Usually she would take advantage of folks' underestimation of her, but Chris had been ignoring her scowls for most of their lives; she'd have to try another tactic.  "So do I call you Lord Richardson, now that we're in England?" 

"C'mon, Amanda," Chris said.

"What's this now?" asked his smaller, blonder buddy, Pilot-Officer Blake Lewis.

She grinned; this might make up for having to wear stockings with her dress uniform on this train trip from the harbor to the airfield.  "Your mom said your dad has a title but he only uses it when he comes home to England.  So shouldn't you have one?"

Blake let out a low whistle.  "Man, you've been holding out on me?  I've been pals with a lord?"

"No, no!"  Chris sighed.  "So, my grandfather is a duke.  There, happy Amanda?"

"And that makes you a lord?" Blake asked.

"No, that makes me fuck-all, because my father is a second son."

"But _he's_ a lord," Amanda said.  "Lord Richardson.  And your mother is Lady Richardson."

"Yeah, but I'm not anything."

Blake cocked his head.  "That doesn't seem fair."

Chris shrugged.  "And they only got called that when we were here for holidays."

"So if your dad were the first son?"

"Well," Chris said, "he might not have married my mother since she's American, but I would have grown up here and not in Virginia, and I wouldn't have met you.  I'd like to think I'd still be flying.  So now it all comes out even."

"But your dad would still be Lord Richardson."

Chris blushed a little.  "No, he'd be Earl of Inverness."

"And you'd be?"

"Well, I'd be Baron Arklow."

"Where's the Richardson?"

"It's our last name, not the name of the title.  So I wouldn't be Richardson, I'd be Arklow."

Blake sat back on the bench.  "That's just confusing."

"Yeah," Chris said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"But you know it all by heart?"

"Well, my grandmother—"

"The Duchess?"

"—yeah, she used to quiz us.  She was worried we wouldn't know our family, living in America and all.  Man, Amanda, why'd you start this?"

Amanda laughed.  "Because it's a real scream."

"I don't want to be your friend anymore."

"You've been saying that since we were three." 

"This time I mean it."

"You've been saying _that_ since we were ten."

"I can't imagine why your parents wanted you two to get married," Blake said.

"Fat chance of _that_," Amanda replied. 

"Hey!  I'm a good catch!" Chris objected.

"Yeah, but you're not really my type.  I'm looking for something a little more—" she made an hourglass shape with her hands.  "Not that you aren't shapely yourself, Lewis."

"Well, thank you kindly, ma'am," Blake said in an exaggerated cowboy accent.  "Also, if you laid a finger on Richardson, here, I'm afraid there'd be a duel."  The others started laughing, and Blake said, "What?"

"She could take you," Chris said.

"Nice loyalty!" Blake replied.

"Nothing to do with loyalty," Chris said.  "She can take _me_."

There was a tap at the compartment door, and Amanda saw Blake quickly slide away from Chris—just two inches, but that tiny difference that made all the difference, and she sighed. When she and Chris had been out barnstorming together, he'd had a man in every town.  Not that difficult, as he was downright dashing in his flying kit, scarf and goggles and all. She'd pulled her share of pretty girls, intrigued by the lady mechanic; they'd come around the plane, shyly, half the time not sure what brought them there, giggly and flirting as if she were a boy.  She'd leave telling them to move to Chicago, New York, some big city where they could find a lot more girls in trousers.  It was harder for Chris, because the women wanted him.  The men rarely dared to approach Amanda, and that was fine with her.

But when the war started and they'd decided to head for Calgary and join up with the RCAF—which Chris was doing for Amanda's sake; he could have joined the RAF at any point—Chris met the Boeing test pilot from Seattle who could do as many tricks as he could, if not more, and immediately fell into what could have been an inconvenient crush.  But Chris had always been a lucky sort of fellow, and his feelings were returned.  It was odd, as Blake and Chris were seen by the other pilots as best buddies, inseparable good friends—apparently since they were big manly pilots no one suspected anything else, which was all to the good.  Everyone liked Chris anyway, which helped ease Amanda's acceptance by the other pilots.  After all, if a pilot like Chris insisted that only Amanda service his plane, she must have the stuff.

Amanda opened the door.  "Grigsby!"

"Overmyer!"  Sgt. Charles Grigsby gave Amanda a firm handshake.   "Sister, I have never been so glad to be on dry land!   Room for three more in here?"

"Of course, come on in.  Yeah, I hate ships; don't like being on anything that has an engine too big for me to get my hands around."

"Ain't that the truth," he said, flinging his bag up onto the shelf above them.  Brandon Rogers and Anwar Robinson followed him into the compartment.  They were the only colored men who hadn't washed out of training—Rogers and Robinson were pilots—and since there were so few of them they weren't segregated into their own squadron, much to the dismay of some of the white pilots.  Not that it was easy at first for Chris either; he'd confided to Amanda that he'd never have thought Negroes _could_ fly until he'd seen Rogers and Robinson for himself.  Once he had, though, he was firm and outspoken advocate for their inclusion—after all, this was war.

Grigsby didn't have the same problems; it was much odder to see a white woman like Amanda with grease on her hands than a colored man.  The two took to each other instantly, and Amanda was grateful that he was colored, as even if he did make any advances they'd be easy to turn down without revealing her secret.  But he never did, just treated her like another pal.

"Itchin' to get in the air?" Rogers asked, sitting down on the other side of Grigsby.

"Man, between the train to Halifax, and the crossing, and this trip, I haven't spent this much time not flying since I learned how!" Blake said.

Robinson, seated next to Blake, stretched out his legs.  "I expect," he said, "that soon enough we'll be flying even more than we'd like."

* * *

It was drizzling by noontime, so Ryan wore a trench coat _and_ a hat like the stereotypical foreign correspondent in the movies, which was helpful for confidence. As he walked from the Tube, he focused his mind on the interview he was doing later that afternoon, getting himself into that post-preparation zone where he was all instinct and reaction.  So he wasn't thinking much when he walked into the door of Broadcast House and let his feet take him straight into Simon's office.

"Can I … help you?" Simon asked, barely looking up from his desk.

"Have a minute?" Ryan asked, closing the office door.

"I reckon," Simon said, slowly standing up and perching on the corner of his desk.

Ryan walked across the room and took Simon's head in his hands.  He hesitated for a moment, looking into his eyes, and then leaned in for a kiss.  It was oddly comfortable, softer than he would have expected, and not perfect—their tongues sort of flopped about before settling into a good place.  Simon slid his hands behind Ryan's shoulders, and he found himself standing between Simon's legs.  He pulled back, and was a little short of breath.

"Your hands are cold," Simon whispered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ryan said, smiling. 

"No, I like it," Simon replied, and moved in for another kiss, slipping off Ryan's hat for better access.   After a bit he added, "Don't you have some work to do?"

"Interview around 2:30," Ryan said, barely lifting his lips from Simon's.

"Dinner on Sunday?"

"I'd like that."  Silence again, and then Ryan said, "New rule—do not kiss Simon during business hours."

"Why not?"

"Can't seem to stop."

One more kiss, and Simon pulled back.  "I appreciate that you're a man of your word—"

"Of course."

"—but you need to do your interview."

"You're right.  Yes."  Ryan smoothed his hair.  "How do I look?"

"Ravished."  Simon smiled.  "Here, your tie's askew."  He pulled it into place, the back of his fingers brushing against Ryan's chest, and he could feel it rising and falling, his heart beating so fast.  "Oh hell," he said, using the tie to get himself a last kiss. "Go, before something happens."

"Going," Ryan said, walking backwards.  He stumbled over one of the chairs—"Whoops!"—and tried to push the door open instead of pull it—"Oh, other way"—before finally walking out the door with a last wave. 

Simon sat down in his chair and licked his lips.  He felt giddy, like he hadn't since—like a girl, one of those teenage girls who scream over Valentino or Clark Gable.  Ryan had left his hat on Simon's desk and he put it on, marveling at how small Ryan's head was.

There was a knock at the door, and Carly walked in, closing it behind her.  "Whose hat is that?" Carly asked, sitting down at her own table.  "Doesn't fit you."

"What?  Oh, um, Ry-Seacrest's.  It's Seacrest's hat, he left it in here just now."

Carly narrowed her eyes.  "Why?  What have you two been—heavens, your lips are all puffy."

"Are they?" Simon asked, running his fingers across them.

Carly shook her head.  There was a knock at the door, and in came Joel McHale.  He nodded.  "Cowell."

"McHale," Simon replied.

McHale shut the door behind him, turned to Carly, and put his hand out, palm up.

Carly scowled as she reached for her handbag, pulled a fiver out of her wallet, and handed it over.

"Thank you," McHale said, and let himself out.

Simon turned to Carly.  "All right, what was the over-under?"

"A week," Carly said, turning back to her work.

* * *

As soon as they arrived they were ordered to put their gear in their bunks, change out of their dress uniforms, and assemble in the briefing room.  Amanda was surprised that the ground crews were also being asked to join the briefing; after all, they weren't classified as officers, even though with her college education she was qualified to be one.  She sat with Grigsby as far in the back corner as was possible in the small room.  Robinson and Rogers had been called away, and Amanda was concerned that they'd be denied at this last minute.  Taylor Hicks and Bucky Covington, the mechanic who'd followed Hicks around like a well-leashed puppy since the first day in Calgary, hadn't stopped pushing for a segregated squadron since the decision had been made, on the grounds of "camaraderie." Amanda had sympathy for the airmen who were uncomfortable with colored pilots and ground crew; she'd been raised in Virginia, lived in a house with colored servants, had the usual beloved colored nursemaid.  But Hicks reminded her of the county sheriff her daddy had helped push out of office when she was a girl, a man who'd used race to increase his own power.  It wasn't about a true belief in the inferiority of the Negro, which Amanda's family didn't share but didn't fight; it was, as her daddy had said at the time, "the same old divide and conquer."

There was a rustling and Amanda looked up to see a man she hadn't seen before walk in; he moved as though he expected their respect and had a no-nonsense air about him with the hint of a scowl.  The two regular RCAF pilots who'd helped train them back in Calgary, David Cook and Matthew Rogers, followed him.  Everyone stood at attention as the man walked to the small podium at the front of the room.  Amanda noted that Robinson had reappeared, in the front row, next to Josh Gracin.

"As you were, men," he said in a broad accent Amanda couldn't place.  "I'm Group Captain Michael Johns, and as you can hear, I'm Royal Australian Air Force.  I'll be heading up your group as well as some other groups as part of the overall Commonwealth forces, and I would say I want to welcome you Yanks to the effort, except I've been told that some of you won't answer to that term."  After a bit of laughter, Johns goes on.  "Well, the southerners will have to get used to it; outside of the States Yanks is what you all are.  I've looked over all of your records over the last week and talked just now to the Flight Lieutenants"—which he pronounced "lef-tenant", confusing Amanda for a moment—"about the organization of this group and we've decided to divide you into two squadrons of three flights, each flight with three aircraft, three pilots, and one mechanic.  David Cook and Matthew Rogers have been promoted to your Squadron Leaders.  I want to emphasize that flight leader is an in-air designation only; you will all remain Pilot-Officers.  Working in Squadron 12 under Lieutenant Rogers as flight leaders will be Joshua Gracin and Justin Guarini; in Squadron 15 under Lieutenant Cook will be Phil Stacey and Anwar Robinson."  Johns held up his hand.  "I understand from Cook and Rogers that this decision will be controversial for some of you, but it's final.  Welcome to the war, gentlemen."

As Johns began to call out the names of pilots and mechanics, they arranged themselves into their two squadrons.  To Amanda's relief, she, Chris and Blake were with Lt. Cook in Squadron 15, while Hicks and Covington were in Lt. Rogers's squadron. 

"One last thing," Johns announced.  "We'll dine tonight as one team.  We don't much hold to the segregation of pilots and grounds crew in the RAAF or the RCAF, and we won't do that here either, even if we are in England.  Now, I'll leave you to it."  Everyone stood again as Captain Johns left the room.

"All right, men," Lieutenant Cook started, looking serious, though even when he was stern he had an air of friendliness that inspired loyalty in his pilots.  "Oh, and lady," he added, nodding at Amanda.

"I'll answer to 'man', sir," Amanda said.

Cook nodded.  "Now, if any of you do have a problem with Robinson…"

"If I can interrupt, sir?" asked Daughtry.

"Please."

"Speaking for myself, after seeing Robinson fly during training, I'd be proud to serve in a flight with him."

"So would I," said Young.

"Me too, sir," added Bice.

Cook smiled then.  "Well, that makes our jobs easier.  As Richardson and Lewis are already on record, I'm putting Daughtry and Richardson under Robinson, Young and Bice with Stacey, and Rogers and Lewis with me.  Sergeants, you have back up; we have a few Canadian ground crews already here, and they're waiting to show you around.  Pilots, come with me and I'll brief you further, and we'll all reconnect at dinner."

Grigsby and Amanda walked outside, young Jason Castro in tow, where they were joined by the mechanics for squadron 12, Sergeants J.P. Lewis, Scott Savol and Covington.

"Nice," Covington said, "the black, the baby and the —"

"I wouldn't, friend," Sgt. Lewis said, his hands in his pockets.

"Oh?  _You're_ gonna stop me?"

"I'd try," he replied.  "It's at least three against two, and 'sides, just 'cause you can't hit her don't mean she won't hit you."

"Yeah, well, if she hits me," Covington said, "then she ain't a lady."

"Never said I was," Amanda replied, walking away in the direction of the airfield.

The orientation from the Canadians, who'd been there about a month, was fairly simple: the equipment in London wasn't much different than in Calgary, and they'd already learned the Hurricane and Spitfire fighters inside and out during training.  Now that the Americans had arrived, they'd be learning upkeep on the bombers, to back up the crews on the bomber squadrons, and they got books of specs to read on their own time.  Still, when they got to the large mess hall the pilots were already there, so the three mechanics joined their squadron at a long table.

Amanda sat down next to Chris, who leaned in to whisper, "Any trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle.  Your end?"

"I don't think anyone would make trouble in front of Cook and Rogers," he replied, "but it's hard to tell.  We're all on the same side anyway, right?"

"Sure.  Speaking of which, how are you two—"

"Pretty dire for the duration," he said, his voice going even lower.  "Like one of those novels your mother was always reading."

"Star-crossed lovers kept apart by fate?  Sounds like that book you lent me."

"Amanda, that book was about the brave men who fought in the Spanish Civil War, not _lovers_," he said with a wink.  "Just like a woman, seeing romance in everything."

"That's me," Amanda replied.  "Girly to the core."

* * *

After her shower Kim dressed and went to the kitchen to help Mrs. Studdard with cast dinner.  Mandisa Studdard and her husband Ruben had been brought over by Paula to look after the girls and keep things respectable.  The girls had a firm curfew unless they were with Paula or Randy as they had been the night before; Kim felt like she was back on sorority row at Spelman with Mandisa as housemother, even though she was only a few years older than Kim.

"Mrs. Studdard, it smells wonderful," Paula said as she walked into the kitchen, a little ahead of the crowd as usual.

"Why thank you, Miss Abdul," Mandisa replied.  "Here, I have your dinner keeping warm," she continued, pulling a plate off the far back of the stove and setting it on the kitchen table.  "Absolutely ham-free."

"You are so good to me, Mrs. Studdard," Paula said, getting out her utensils before sitting down.  Kim thought it was sweet, the way that Paula and Mandisa treated each other so formally, as if they were both the ladies of the house.  "I see you've put Kim to work again."

"She's a lot of help," Mandisa said.  "More than most of these show girls."

"I like it," Kim said.  "Keeps my feet on the ground."  She was slicing crackling cornbread when the boys in the band started wandering in.  "Y'all hoot and holler so you'd think there was seventeen of you."

"We want you girls to know we're here," said Chik Easy, tapping at the table in the subconscious way of the drummer.

"I'm sure you do," Kim said.

And in truth it didn't take long for nearly all the dancers to come rushing down the stairs, adding their squeaks to the general din.  Kim had slipped off her apron and settled down next to Paula, watching as the girls flirted and the boys teased.  Jennifer had settled herself very happily between Ricky and Nicky Smith, cousins and saxophone players, and Kim admired how well she kept the attention of both of them, particularly given the male-to-female ratio at the table.  Most of the other members of the band had their choice of dancers willing to get them more beans, more cornbread.  The faster white girls—like Kellie, Jessica, or the odd one who'd decided to rename herself "Ryan"—were happy to flirt with, even have a fling with the boys in the band.  But most of them kept a friendly but firm distance, gathering at the far end of the table.  After all, it was one thing to live with colored folks, work with them, eat their food, but another thing entirely to date them.  Like Kat, they were hoping for sugar daddies, but would settle in the meantime for stage door Johnnies. 

Paula leaned over and asked, "Why aren't you joining in, Kim?"

"Oh," Kim said, "I've been with musicians before.  They love the music, sure, but they don't have anything _else_ to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Well, they aren't trying to get ahead, or don't know how.  I just—I want a man who thinks about more than how quickly he can spend this week's paycheck."

"That's right," Mandisa chimed in.  "When I was a girl, I knew I didn't want to marry some 'cropper, so I went with my brother to Chicago, and I met Ruben.  And you're a college girl!  Don't you settle."

Paula shrugged.  "It can get lonely, not settling.  Not a lot of men around that come up to that standard.  I'm not saying compromise—just be prepared for what life is like when you don't."  She smiled, taking Kim's hand and squeezing it.

"But Paula, you always have acres of beaux," Kim said.

"I do," Paula replied, "but I haven't found that _one_, and I've even married three of them!  Trust me, dogs are better—though that quarantine will be the death of me!  I won't see mine for another few months!"

"Well, you have us until then," Kim said loyally.  "And maybe you'll have me for even longer.  We can be single ladies together.  Maybe even start a club."

"Single ladies with standards!  That's the ticket!  But before that, before anything else, comes work."  She looked up at the clock.  "Oh my goodness.  Randy, Randy, the radio!"

Randy, who was sitting on the other side of Mandisa, talking to Ruben, leaned over to switch on the set, fiddle with the tuning a bit, until he found a male voice, English-accented with impossibly round tones that Kim hadn't heard actually come out of anyone's mouth, saying something about the British Navy contracting for battleships under the new Lend-Lease laws.

"Aww, we don't wanna listen to that war jazz," Nicky Smith called out.

"You'll wish you had when America goes to war and you have to fight," Kim said.

"FDR's gonna keep us out of this war, you'll see," Chik Easy replied.

Kat, further down the table, shook her head. "You probably don't even know who's fighting, or what for!"

"Don't know, don't need to know, don't wanna know," Ricky Smith said.

"Hey now," Randy said, waving his hands to calm them down.  "We're not listening for that anyway."

After a brief musical interlude, an announcer said, "And now, our own Simon Cowell, with the goings-on about town."

"Last night I attended the new revue at the Pyramid Club," he started, and Kim thought how different his voice sounded on the radio than in person.  The dancers got excited at the mention and Randy waved his hands to shush.  "Don't let the controversy keep you away from this stylish and inventive show.  Hot jazz from colored Americans has been a hit in London for some years now and this revue of Duke Ellington songs should be no exception.  Paula Abdul's dancing girls are delightful, as are the performances from the three featured girl singers.  Be sure to stay after the floorshow, so you can dance with your sweetheart to the small but powerful band led by Randy Jackson.  And if you need more convincing, tune into my show this Tuesday evening, which will feature some of the singers from the Pyramid Club."

The announcer came back:  "Well, a rare rave from Simon Cowell …" but he was soon drowned out by the cheering of the show people gathered around the table.

"All right, all right," Randy said.  "It's good news, but we've gotta stay focused.  One good show isn't enough.  You gotta bring it every day like it was the first day, because there ain't no second chances.  You feelin' me?"

The kids nodded.

"I said, are you feelin' me?"

"Yeah!" they shouted.

Paula stood up as well.  "All right ladies, gentlemen, we have a show to do."

* * *

The interview had gone off without a hitch, and better than that, had sent a signal to his fellow broadcasters that despite being new in town Ryan would be able to give them a run for their money.  The actor had taken to small David, and they'd even had a brief conversation on mike about Spain, which David urged Ryan to include in the interview.  On the one hand, Ryan hated to feel that he was using the kid, but on the other hand, David was more than happy to be used for his cause. 

It was nearing dinnertime and Ryan was sitting in his office working on a script; Giuliana had brought him a final cup of coffee before she left for the day.  Joel had gone on another training excursion with Carly, and small David had left right after the interview to meet up with his school chums.  He could hear music playing in Cowell's office next door and wondered why the man was still in the office rather than out on the town, though to be fair it wasn't that late.  He rubbed his fingers across his lips, remembering the kiss.  His other affairs had been much slower to start, and more about Ryan charming his way into the good graces of a golden boy:  the former child actor turned musical comedy star, the ace tennis player who brought him to Spain in the first place, the charismatic leader trying to save his country.  But this Simon Cowell—Ryan tried to ignore it, but it was different.  He felt confident, at ease, no need to try that hard.  He looked at the man and thought, _he's mine_.

Well, why wait?  He got up from this desk and packed his case—he could finish the script at home, or in the morning—slipped on his overcoat but where was his hat?  He looked behind Joel's desk, in his own desk drawers, and finally perched on the edge of his desk to retrace his steps.  He was wearing his hat when he walked into Simon's office and then—

Oh.  That's right.

He got up and opened his door, and there was Simon, leaning against his own doorjamb smoking a cigarette, Ryan's hat perched on his other hand.  Music drifted out of his open door, the new Bing Crosby hit:  "wrap your troubles in dreams and dream your troubles away…"

He took a puff, then asked, "Looking for this?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, taking the hat from him and putting it on.

"You have a very small head," Simon said.

Ryan shrugged.  "I'm a small man.  Say, I was thinking—"

"Why wait?" Simon asked.

"Yeah," Ryan replied, a little startled.  "Why wait?"

Simon nodded.  "Let me pack up," he said, and stepped back into his office. 

Ryan leaned against the jamb as Simon switched off the gramophone and slid a few things into a leather case.

"I'll take you to my local," he was saying.  "They have excellent pie."

"Your local what?" Ryan asked.

"Pub, of course," he replied, slipping on his raincoat and grabbing his umbrella.

"Ah, I see," Ryan said.

"And next time," Simon went on, "we can try yours."

"I'm not sure where it is," Ryan admitted.

Simon shut his office door.  "We'll find it, and we'll bring Joel and Carly along, because Joel should know where it is, too."

"Great," Ryan said, and realized Simon had said "next time" like it was just assumed, and wondered if Simon had the same feeling he did.

"What?" Simon asked.

Ryan cocked his head and smiled.  "Nothing," he replied.  "Lead the way."

Simon lived not far from Broadcast House, so they walked to the Newman Arms, a small old pub with an arched stone passageway. It was a cozy little place with low ceilings and large windows, the menu written on a blackboard above the fireplace. The proprietor nodded as they walked in, and indicated two seats near the back.

"Isn't there some other pub most of the BBC people go to?" Ryan asked.

"Yes, the Fitzroy," Simon replied. "But there's a time and a place for all that see-and-be-seen, and sometimes a man just wants pint and pie in peace."

Ryan leaned in closer and said, low, "Or doesn't want to be seen too often with another man, especially if one or both of them have a certain … reputation."

Simon shrugged. "You'd mark me a fool if I said that didn't cross my mind," he admitted, "but it wasn't the primary motivator. I can't play those games all the time; no one can. Not even you, Mr. Hollywood."

"No," Ryan said.

"Besides," Simon went on, "I like your real voice so much better than that silly radio voice of yours."

Ryan decided to ignore that particular comment. "So it's just pie?" he asked.

"I recommend the beef and Guinness," Simon said, "unless you're a fan of kidneys. Most Americans aren't."

"But there's chicken and leek, that sounds good," Ryan replied.

Simon raised an eyebrow. "I would offer to order for you," he said, "but that would make you even more of a girl than ordering a _chicken pie_."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Men do eat chicken."

"Not when given the choice of good British beef they don't," he said as the girl came over.

"The usual, Mr. Cowell?" she asked.

Simon nodded, and then they both looked at Ryan, expectantly.

He sighed. "I'll have the beef and Guinness and a pint of ale." The girl nodded and wandered off.

Simon grinned widely around his cigarette. "You'll find it so much easier," he said, leaning over to light Ryan's, "if you listen to me."

"Somehow I doubt that," Ryan replied.

* * *

Amanda found the other girls in the female barracks to be just fine as far as they went, which really wasn't that far.  There were eight of them in the smallish building, four to a room in bunk beds like those northern summer camps her Smith classmates went to.  They didn't much believe her denials that Chris was her sweetheart, but that was fine as it distracted them from the larger truth of the matter.  At the front of their barracks was a recreation room, which the girls said got a lot of sun in the daytime and was very pleasant.  The room resembled an old fashioned parlor, with chairs and little tables and a radio in the corner.  Several girls had their knitting or embroidery sitting in neat fabric bags in the corners of favorite chairs, and Amanda wondered if she'd pick the habit back up; she was sure her mother would jump at the chance to send Amanda's old crochet hooks.  The thought of making Chris a lap rug for his plane made her chuckle, but the truth was she probably wouldn't be able to get enough of the grease out of her hands to do any clean handiwork.  But there was a little shelf with books, and a lending library in town, and she supposed that now was as good a time as any to finally read _Vanity Fair_.

The radio, however, was intensely disappointing.  Where were the shows playing real music, rather than this semi-classical nonsense?  Amanda had nothing against the long hairs, but she didn't think even they would care for this bizarrely sentimental stuff.  There was a fairly good news show, with an "entertainment minute" from some bloke in London who sounded hilarious to Amanda, though the other girls found him generally a bit too pleased with himself.  Then it was back to the sap, and the girls were "filling in" Amanda on all the base gossip.  Capt. Johns was considered the most magnetic and handsome of the various group captains and apparently had a bit of a roaving eye, and while no one had any evidence that he'd actually strayed from his marriage vows, some of the girls were clearly setting their cap for him.  Others were taken by the romance of the flyboys, but all of them were firm about their intention to marry up, and were excited that the war had thrown them into the company of so many upper class, educated men; most of these girls were middle class, and had gone to public universities if they'd gone to school at all. 

By the end of the evening Amanda was remembering why she'd been so desperate to leave Virginia.  However smart and interesting these ladies were, she felt strange and out of place; seems that something about looking forward to a future as a wife and mother affected the way a girl acted even among other girls. But that wasn't her future, and she'd spent so much time at Smith and then out barnstorming that she'd forgotten how to pretend.  She went out to the stoop to stare up at the moon, get some air.  She could see the men's recreation room across the way, and wondered how they were getting on, Chris and his Blake, the colored pilots, all of them.  Capt. Johns had made it clear that she was welcome in the men's rec room, given that she worked directly with them and had been among them since training back in Calgary and she thought she'd probably spend more time over there, than here.  Jeez, none of the girls were even her type, not that she was idiot enough to fool around in her own barracks.  That thought made her worry about Chris; he'd always been better than she at hiding his preferences, but he'd never fallen in love before, either.  And he didn't have to tell her (though he did); she could see it in his eyes.  She hoped Blake could, too, but even more she hoped that everyone else couldn't.

The door to the recreation room swung open and shut as Robinson came outside, seemingly for the same reason she did.  He noticed her and walked toward her, meeting her halfway across the dusty street.

"Feelin' a little out of place too, are ya?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said.  "Never was much good at being a girl, and I'm an American one on top o'that.  How's it in there?"

"You'll be glad to know the poker game is starting up again," he said.  "Boys'll be eager to earn back their money from you."

"I won that money fair and square," she said, shaking her head.  "So, they giving you any trouble, Robinson?" she asked.

"Not really," he said mildly, and pulled out one of his meticulously self-rolled cigarettes.

"Meaning, yes."

"Meaning nothing I can't handle even on a bad day," he replied, and lit up.

"Those boys sure backed you and Rogers up today," she said, smiling.  "I'm glad.  You earned it."

Robinson nodded, warily.  "Yeah, well, that's in the air."

"Hey now," Amanda said.  "I've known Chris Richardson a lot longer than you, it's true, but I tell you, everything he says, he'll back up with his fists if he has to.  And so will I, if it comes to that."

Robinson cocked his head.  "Well, I'd like to keep it from getting that far.  That's no good."

"All right," Amanda said, and searched for a new topic.  "Don't suppose there are too many colored girls around here."

"Sgt. Overmyer, are you trying to find me a girl now?" Robinson asked.

Amanda grinned.  "Maybe.  It's a better project than crocheting a lap robe, let me tell ya."

* * *

Happily the confidence boost the cast received from Mr. Cowell's review only served to make the show a bit looser.  Everyone was surer of themselves, and could relax and really sell the songs and dances to the audience.  Kim always liked a show better when it started settling into itself, though this one was complicated enough that it would probably take a good few weeks before that happened.  But the crowds were big and Ruben said that the phone was ringing off the hook, between the BBC and good notices in the _Times_ and other papers.

A few of the dancers were sitting about in the spacious room that the three main singers shared, winding down from that night's show.  There were over twenty dancers and like any group of girls they fell into loose groups; the odd part was that all the groups were mixed, colored and white.  There was the very serious group, whom Jen labeled the "snobs": girls like Carrie who went to bed promptly after the show, never going to the after-hours club, and who wanted to make the move from this jazz revue to Ziegfeld or the like.  There were the faster girls, for whom the show was mostly an excuse to be out late at parties and meet available men, whether in the band or backstage.  But the few girls who clustered around Jen, Kat and Kim were looking to become more singers than dancers. Their understudies Kelly Clarkson and Tamyra Gray could sing any part in the show. The show had been one of Kelly's first auditions since arriving from Texas; she was sending every available penny home to her farmer parents who were hard pressed by drought and Depression. Tamyra was quiet, and could often be found scribbling away in a journal, putting down song lyrics. Haley Scarnato and Gina Glocksen were an inseparable pair and shared a room just down the hall; they were more like the faster girls in temperament, but generally kept their distance from the boys in the band and at the after hours clubs.  Ever since they'd come to London these girls had gathered in the larger bedroom after the shows and gossiped;  on this night, they were talking about the after-hours club and the mysterious Mr. Cowell.  
   
"No offense," Kelly said, pulling her brown hair into a pert ponytail, "but it was nice to just get up and _sing_."  
   
"None taken," Kim replied.  "I liked singing something different, myself."

"And the band!" Gina said.  "They know how to wail! A girl can really dance to that kinda music."  
   
"But hot jazz don't bring in the folks like sweet jazz does," Tamyra said, shrugging.   
   
Jen nodded her agreement. "I'm just glad Mr. Cowell knew of a place! I didn't realize how much I missed those clubs until we found one."  
   
"I just don't know how you can go out with those boys in the band, Jen," said Haley.  "They're so quick to take advantage."  
   
Kim snickered.  "Jen can keep them in line."  
   
"The band isn't the place to look for Mr. Right," Jen said, "but that isn't where I'm at right now anyway."  
   
"What about the boys at the door?" Tamyra asked.  
   
"So far they're pretty wet," Kat said dismissively.  "Only a few have come backstage more than once.  I know we just opened, but really."  Kat and Jen had both been featured performers in shows before, and Kat was used to a certain level of man taking her to dinners and buying her presents—presents that were generally sold and the cash put in the bank.  "And where are those lords and earls and such?"  
   
"There was a bit in the paper about some American pilots coming over to help the RAF," Kelly said.  "Maybe they'll find us, since we're playing American music."  
   
"That would be better than the Brit servicemen.  They're just as dopey as the rest of these Brits," Gina said.   
   
"Kim, wouldn't it be nice for you if they've brought some colored pilots with them?" Kat said, a little condescending but not unkindly.    
   
"It might be," Kim said.  "Being in the service teaches a man to be responsible, which playing music does _not_. But I bet you'll find your prince if you keep looking."  
   
"If any of us have a chance, it's you, Kat," Haley added.  Kim had to struggle not to glance at Jen, or they'd start laughing.  Some of the girls looked on Kat as some kind of princess, which Kat encouraged but Kim and Jen found a bit silly.  
   
Kat smiled.  "Well, if I find one, I'll be sure to send his brothers your way."  
   
"That's right," Jen said.  "We'll get a jazz singer into Buckingham Palace one way or another."  
   
"I think _you'd_ make a good queen, Jen," Tamyra said.   
   
"African queen, maybe, but there ain't many of _them_," she replied.  "I'd settle for Duchess.  Or maybe Countess, that sounds nice."  
   
"Well I'd settle for, 'has a job of his own'," Kelly said, and they all laughed.  
   
"All right," Kat said, looking at the clock.  "It's midnight, and I need some beauty sleep if I'm going to get that Duke."  
   
As the other girls left and Kim turned down her bed she couldn't help but wonder, what if there really _was_ a man in London for her?  She hadn't even considered the possibility before—part of the reason she came to London with the show, other than the opportunity of a featured part, was that she was tired of getting her heart broken and thought London would be "safe."  And now, against what she considered good sense, a little bubble of hope rose up in her chest.  But a little hope wasn't such a bad thing, was it? 

* * *

The pie was excellent—a flaky crust that melted into its well-seasoned filling of beef and vegetables—as was the dessert of rhubarb crumble, which Simon kept calling pudding for some reason. Ryan knew that if he ate like this every night he'd soon be as round as he had been when he was ten, and made a mental note to keep plenty of vegetables in the flat and find a gymnasium to get some exercise, both of which would be more difficult here than in sunny, sporty, farm-adjacent Los Angeles. The conversation was excellent—calmer now that they both knew where they stood, less flirtatious as others were in close proximity. Instead they told this-is-who-I-am stories, and while Ryan was sure his were ridiculous, Simon's revealed him to be more sensitive than Ryan would have thought. They moved to the bar after dinner and downed pints until closing time, when they stood awkwardly on the sidewalk.

"Well," Ryan said.

"I'm not far," Simon said. "You should come up for a drink."

Ryan cocked his head, hesitating. He'd lost his earlier confidence somewhere along the way, and was starting to distrust how easy this was, even if Simon himself was prickly and difficult. "I—"

"Did you enjoy your pie?" Simon interrupted.

Ryan scowled at the abrupt change in topic. "Yes, but what—"

"Then listening to me has worked out so far," he said, lighting a cigarette. He looked up at Ryan. "Hasn't it?"

Ryan folded his arms, suddenly irritated. "Or you could ask nicely," he said.

Simon stopped, startled, then looked out into the street, pausing long enough that Ryan wondered if he had overplayed his hand. Then Simon threw up his hands, turned back and smiled—not that self-satisfied smirk, but a real smile that made his eyes sparkle in a way that took Ryan's breath away. "Would you like to come to my flat for a drink?" he asked. Then, much softer so he couldn't be overheard, "Or to see my etchings or whatever the euphemism is these days."

Ryan bit his lip, trying to look serious. "Do you even have etchings?"

"No," Simon said, shaking his head.

"Then I'd love to," Ryan said, and let himself grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Adam's Rib_ (dir. George Cukor, 1949) is a romantic comedy starring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
> 
> I'm going to save a lot of the notes about where I've deviated from the facts of the time in terms of race and sexuality for the commentary.
>
>> _Randy, who was sitting on the other side of Mandisa, talking to Ruben, leaned over to switch on the set, fiddle with the tuning a bit, until he found a male voice, English-accented with impossibly round tones that Kim hadn't heard actually come out of anyone's mouth, saying something about the British Navy contracting for battleships under the new Lend-Lease laws._
> 
> Lend-Lease was a program instituted by FDR where the US would lend or lease weapons, ships, planes, and the like to the cash-strapped British and the French. FDR famously likened this to lending your neighbor a hose if their house caught fire. Of course, no one really thought that the Brits would be returning the planes and ships after the war was over, but it was a way for the US to help the Allies while staying out of the war.
>
>> _The radio, however, was intensely disappointing. Where were the shows playing real music, rather than this semi-classical nonsense? Amanda had nothing against the long hairs, but she didn't think even they would care for this bizarrely sentimental stuff. _
> 
> The BBC, being non-commercial, didn't play much popular music until the 1940s, and even then two audiences moved them: the British servicemen who were sitting around waiting for the Phoney War to end and the shooting war to start, and the American servicemen who were used to hearing popular music on commercial radio stations in the States. A lot of what the BBC would have been playing in 1939 was light classical and other sentimental music. 


	4. His Girl Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who _doesn't_ want to be on the radio?

_15 November 1939_

"But sir, if you'd—" Ryan looked up at Joel, shook his head just a touch.  "All right.  No, no, I understand very well.  _No_, not at all.  Well frankly, sir, I think it's a damn shame that their being pilots doesn't override it, but of course I see the problem."  He tapped his pencil on the pad in front of him.  "Did you get my note about the girl mechanic?"  Another long pause, during which Joel lifted his eyebrows and Ryan nodded.  "Thank you sir.  So we'll go right ahead and do that.  What about the revue piece?  Yes, we can do that, definitely.  That's fine.  Well, of course I'd rather it air.  Oh really?  Yes, that is good news.  Very glad to hear it.  No, please, thank _you_.  Well, we're working hard to keep that trust.  All right sir.  You too."  He hung up the phone.

"Jeez louise," Joel said.

"Tell me about it."

"Ixnay on the egroesnay?

Ryan nodded.  "It's too bad.  Their story shouldn't be in just the black press.  But maybe one of those affiliates that play race records will want the audio.  Anyway, we're clear for the Pyramid Club—"

"Fantastic!"

"—we just can't mention the dancers."

"Not so fantastic."

Ryan shrugged.  "Small victories.  They were very interested in Sgt. Overmyer."

"Great, we can—"

"No, I think I'll send out Giuliana with Carly, if Simon and the symphony can spare her.  The sergeant was a little guarded with us.  She's surrounded by men all the time; let's see if a girl will get more out of her."

"Makes sense."

Ryan sighed.  "Well, let's get something to eat and then we can start re-editing that piece."

"No date tonight?"

"Joel.  We haven't had that many dates."

"Four dates in eight days.  _And_ sleepovers."

"You sound like Helen Broderick."

"That makes you Ginger Rogers.  Sure you want to continue that analogy?"

"I can dance backwards."

"In heels?  In a silk bias-cut gown trimmed with feathers?"

"If I had to."

"His continental is that good?"

"Fox-trot.  He's very well trained."

"Ever let you lead?"

"On the dance floor?  Not yet."

"In the bedroom?"

"Joel!"

"Have a heart!  I'm thousands of miles from my wife.  If you're not going to have an affair with me, the least you could do is let me live vicariously through you."

"I dunno, Joel, haven't you been to dinner a few times with Carly?"

"And this is why you would make a bad best friend in a romantic comedy."  Joel leaned forward and whispered, though the office door had been shut since the start of Ryan's phone call.  "Carly isn't looking for a gentleman friend."

"She already has one?"

"Honestly, Ryan, do you listen to anything I say?"

"Not really."

"Carly isn't looking for a _gentleman_ friend."  He sat back in his chair for effect.

"Well.  How do you know that?"

"How did I know about you?"

"It's like you have ESP, but only for finding homosexuals."

"The Lord gives His greatest gifts to those who can use them only for good.  So as I was saying, how's the sex?"

Ryan rolled his eyes.  "You said once that contemplating my sex life made you nauseated."

"Never stopped you before, and I'm hard up now.  Come on, how is it?"  He grinned conspiratorially.

Ryan couldn't help smiling.  "It's really good."

"Yeah?"

"What, you want details?"

"What part of living vicariously through you did you not understand?"

"So you really want to know about when we get into it?  Sometimes, you know, we just suck each other off—and it's weird, because if we do it at the same time, it's almost like doing it to yourself; you kind of lose track."  Joel nodded, transfixed, and Ryan felt suddenly shy.  He looked down, tracing his finger along a groove in the desk.  "But the other night, we were in the buff by then, necking in his bed, and he reached into a jar of Vaseline—that stuff is so useful—and he slid his fingers inside me, which was amazing enough by itself, but he was really just getting me ready for his stiff prick.  Then, well, you know what happens after that, god, it's like he's splitting me in two…"

"And you like that?" Joel asked, his voice oddly hollow.

Ryan looked up, into Joel's eyes, direct.  "I loved it.  I came all over the place."

There was some silence, and then Joel cleared his throat.  "Um, okay, I'll meet you in the lobby.  Gotta stop at the john."

"To jack off or to throw up?" Ryan asked.

"I'll let my body decide when I get there."

* * *

Simon Cowell popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and tossed the paper into the bin.  When Ryan had come by to say that he and Joel were going out to get some lunch and would be happy to get him and Carly something, Carly had smirked at him, and she hadn't stopped even now as they were preparing the studio to record the girl singers from the Pyramid Club.  When they'd first started working together he'd been able to put Carly in line with a glare, but she was no longer afraid of him.  Which was really just as well; it was only a matter of time before she would transition from engineer to producer and it was probably only her being a woman that had held her back thus far.  When they'd started she'd been lucky to be working on such a high-profile show, but now he was lucky to keep her.  That said, she seemed very content to continue to work with him, and he'd take that anytime.  Even with the smirking, and the elbow jabbing, and the winking, which he deserved, as he hadn't actually _dated_ anyone at all since she'd known him—not since that one girl after his divorce, and that was years ago.

"Did it taste better because _he_ brought it?" she asked.

Simon scowled.  "Let's concentrate on the _show_, shall we?"

"The mikes are set up for voices and piano," Carly said.  "We can set levels when they get here."  She looked down at her notes.  "Do we want three songs, or only two?"

"Let's see," Simon said, writing on a pad.  "Forty-one minutes, less ten for the review recap, I want at least nine for the interview—"

"And we have the music hall segment, that's eleven."

"Damn, I keep forgetting about that."  He tapped his pen.  "Well, I don't see how we can do more than one or two songs.  Bit tricky with three singers."

"If they were all as good as you say," Carly said, "we could record them all and play the tapes over the next few weeks, make it a regular feature for the winter, since there won't be many new revues opening until after the holiday."

"We could do," Simon said.  "Might spark a bit of competition between the girls."

"That sounds like a _lovely_ idea," Carly said, rolling her eyes.

"Now, Carly, all of life is a competition; you know that."

"Oh?  Is that what you're doing with Ryan?  Competing?"

"In a sense.  I wouldn't want his show to be better or more popular than mine."

"That must make for fun dates."

"He's the same," Simon said.  "And we're not taking this dating too seriously."

"Are you sure?"

"He _does_ have a bit of a reputation.  A friend of mine in Los Angeles told me—"

"No, I meant, are you sure about yourself?"

"Well!  Of course!"

"Even though you wired Los Angeles to ask about Ryan?"

Simon coughed.  "I put through a trunk call, actually."

Carly laughed, but Simon was saved from further harassment by the arrival of Giuliana, showing in Paula, Randy and the singers.  Simon hopped up to play gracious host.  "Hello, welcome to Studio 5C," he said, shaking Randy's hand. 

"Cowell.  You remember George Huff," Randy said, indicating the man who stood just behind him.

"Yes, of course, your piano player," Simon said.  "And this is my—well, really, my producer, Carly Hennessey."

Handshakes all around, then Giuliana went to fetch tea.  "So I'll tell you," Simon said, "unfortunately we don't have time to feature all the girls this week."

"But we will over the coming weeks," Carly said.  "And if it appeals, we could use it as a regular feature."

"Well," Randy said, "I would want them all featured eventually."

"Of course," Simon said.

"Paula, what do you think?" Randy asked.

"I think it would give each girl a place to shine, in her own special way, and show her heart.  You know?  I think that could be beautiful." 

"Right," Simon said, reminded of why he'd stopped dating singers, however beautiful.  Or handsome, for that matter.

"But if we go beyond this week," Randy said, "I'll want to bring in some of the boys, you know, vary the instrumentation."

"Of course, of course.  Ah, here's the tea, thank you Giuliana.  Well," he said, turning to the singers, "which of you would like to go first?"

Jennifer said, "Uh-uh.  I'm going _last_."

"I'll go first," Kim said, rising.

Simon led Paula, Randy and the two other singers into the engineer's booth while Carly adjusted the microphone for Kim.

"I've never sung on the radio before," she said.

Carly smiled.  "You'll be fine.  Sing like you would to a friend, not on a stage."

Kim nodded, but she still felt uneasy.  Doing something new was one thing, but learning to sing for the radio in front of Simon Cowell, another. 

Carly went back into the booth and they "set levels"—which consisted of Kim singing louder, then softer, while Carly fiddled with some dials.

George reached out and held Kim's hand.  "You'll be great," he said.  "This is _your_ song."

Kim cocked her head at him.  "You're right, George.  It _is_ my song."  She turned back to the booth and saw Carly still smiling, Paula's encouraging nod, and Randy's familiar slight scowl.  What did it matter that Cowell, who was lighting a cigarette, wasn't even looking at her?

"I'm ready when you are," Kim said.

[I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/I_Let_A_Song_Go_Out_Of_My_Heart/2000441)

Simon made a hand motion, Carly hit a switch and said something about a take, then pointed at Kim, and George started the accompaniment so familiar to her from rehearsals.  Well, Carly looked like she could be a friend.

> _I let a song go out of my heart  
> It was the sweetest melody  
> I know I lost heaven  
> 'Cause you were the song_

And Carly _was_ smiling at her, light and friendly, so she tried not to notice Mr. Cowell in the back, looking down at a paper.  Randy was nodding now, hearing how she'd taken his advice.  The rest of the song was fairly simple—it wasn't a difficult song, nor the best one she'd ever sung, but it was Ellington, and it was _hers_.  George finished, the light notes trailing off, and they waited.  Mr. Cowell leaned forward and said something to Randy, Paula and Carly, low—she wasn't sure even Jen or Kat could hear—and then Carly came back on her microphone.  "That was great, Kimberley.  Can you do it again but just a little bit warmer?"

She looked at Mr. Cowell but his face was closed off, unreadable, and slightly turned away.

"Warmer?" Kim asked.  "Yeah, I can do that."

* * *

"Think we got it?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah, I think we do," Joel replied.

"Let's listen through one more time," Ryan said.  He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and finished off his now-cold coffee while Joel rewound the tape.  "The Negro radio piece timed out at …"

"9:25, with a 4:40 pool out."

"I hope someone wants it.  All set?"

Joel zeroed out the timer on the console.  "Yep," he said, and hit play.

Ryan had got used to the sound of his own voice over the years, the delivery just a beat slower than the staccato rat-a-tat tempo that was in vogue.  Ryan didn't feel the need to spit out that many words—he doubted the listeners could absorb them—and anyway, it left no space for _emphasis_.  Ryan often wrote his copy with words underlined, though once he got behind the mike he'd mess around with it until it felt right, just a tick or two more polished than regular speech.  Well, _his_ regular speech.

They'd been the first press to talk to the American pilots after their arrival, and both the RCAF and the RAF were keen to publicize the Yanks in their midst, as if that could somehow shame the country into joining the war.  Lt. David Cook had been engaging and well spoken, and the American pilots, who'd all been training together in Calgary since September, were funny, optimistic and confident in that particularly American way.  Even their chaplain, Rev. Sligh, had been something of a cut-up. 

Pilot-Officer Christopher Richardson was talking—quietly, they'd had to work on the sound for him—and Ryan said, "I wish we could put him on that television we saw at the fair."

"He _is_ very handsome," Joel replied.  "Not really your type though."

"No, he's—wait, you think he's queer?"

Joel cocked his head.

"And that's based on what?" Ryan asked.

He waggled his fingers in the air.  "Never doubt the second sight, Seacrest."

Ryan shook his head.  "How did we time out?"

"15:40 and 13:10 for the two segments."

"Great.  Let's skedaddle."

As they walked down the hall, the two reels of tape boxed and ready for transmission to New York, they heard voices arguing in one of the other studios.  Ryan poked his head in and saw Simon sitting with the two directors of the revue they'd seen the week before.

"I don't feel that's the strongest performance," Simon was saying.

"I dunno, man," Randy said.  "She's definitely the most versatile.  She can sing whatever we throw at her."

"Without complaint, so professional," Paula said.  "And she shows us herself, too."

Ryan could sense Simon's impatience, so he leaned further in through the door.  "You folks need an umpire?"

"Hey man," Randy said, standing up to shake his hand.  "Naw, I mean, we agreed that Jen was the strongest today, but he's just not down with Kim's song."

"No, that's not what I said.  I do like Kimberley and the song, but the performance isn't coming across the way it did on stage, nor should it, really."

Paula put up her hand, as though to speak about it further was more than she could bear.

"I think what Simon means," Ryan said, "is that her song is right for the show, and she sings it well, but when it's taken out of the context of the show it doesn't work.  Maybe she could have another song for the radio?"

"Oh, well, why didn't you say that in the first place, man?" Randy said.  "She could definitely sing a different song.  The show is built around Jen—"

"Of course," Simon interjected.

"—and like I said, Kim can sing anything.  Kat, she's good at what she does, but it's narrower."

"So we're agreed."

"Yeah, I'll think about another song."  Randy turned to Ryan.  "Thanks for translating, man.  I don't know how you knew what he was saying, but …"

"I don't know either," Ryan said, smiling, "but I'm glad to help.  Actually, while I have you," he continued, "I wonder—Joel and I have been interviewing the American pilots.  They just got here last week to help the RAF and—"

"And you'd like them to come to the show," Paula said.  "Of course.  We can easily comp them the door, and perhaps a drink or two."

Randy leaned into Ryan, conspiratorially.  "She's got that club owner wrapped around that little finger of hers and I don't mean maybe," he said, winking at Paula.

"Oh, _you_," she said, but she was smiling.

"But she's right," Randy said.  "Anything for our boys, so long as they don't object to, you know—"

"Actually," Ryan said, "two of the pilots are colored."

"Well!" Randy replied.  "Same group with the whites?"

"Not enough to make their own," Ryan explained, "and too good not to bring over."

"Don't that beat all," Randy said.

"Tell us the night," Paula said, "and we'll make sure they have a front table—and meet the girls after."

"Thank you so much.  They'll love that."

"Cool," Randy said.  "Come on Paula, we got a show and we've left the Studdards with all those kids."

Paula rose gracefully from her chair.  "Thank you so much, Ryan," she said.  "It's so nice to talk to someone _positive_"

Ryan knew if he even looked at Simon he'd start snickering, so he focused on Paula.  "Good to see you too, darling."  He kissed her cheek, taking care to avoid the rather large feather on her hat.  Handshakes all around—Paula gave Carly a hug which Ryan was sure she very much deserved—and then Giuliana, as was her way, mysteriously appeared to walk them out.

After they left, Simon said, "Well, aren't you the charmer?"

Ryan shrugged.  "Goes with the job."

"Before you two start flirting," Joel said, to much rolling of eyes and a chuckle from Carly, "I'm making dinner tonight, and there's plenty for five, if you're interested."

"Five?" Simon asked.

"Giuliana," Joel replied.

"Now, I'm going to speak freely here—"

"When don't you," Carly muttered.

"—but you're a married man, and I happen to care quite a lot for Giuliana.  She's a nice, respectable girl with a nice, respectable beau, some American businessman, and I—"

"Say no more," Joel said.  "I love my wife, I miss her terribly, I write to her twice a day."

"In other words," Ryan said, "he knows he's already found the only woman in the world who'll put up with him for more than a few weeks at a time, and he doesn't want to louse that up."

"What he said.  Anyway, dinner?"

"Why are _you_ cooking?" Simon asked.  "When there will be two women there?"

"Hey, brother, this is the twentieth century!  And I'm a better cook than my wife, so I'm used to it.  Nothing fancy, though."

"Well, when you put it that way," Simon said, "why not."

Giuliana appeared in the doorway, and Joel took her by the shoulders.  "C'mon, G, dinner at our place."

As they walked away Ryan turned to Simon and Carly.  "Say, I was wondering—can I borrow Carly?"

"Why?" Simon asked.  "You and Joel are thick as thieves."

"Oh, not for me," Ryan said.  "For Giuliana." 

* * *

Kim sat in her bed, curled up with a book.  It was their night off and many of the girls had gone out, which suited her just fine.  She needed a little time alone, to think.  
   
The news that the American airmen would be at the show had all the girls in the cast excited, and the boys in the band irritated, but Kim didn't much care.  She'd dance with them, flirt a bit, but she wasn't intending to really make time with any of the men.  She was sure they'd be interesting to talk to, but it was really just another part of her job.  
   
Kim _was_ worried about this Simon Cowell.  It was, after all, her first lead in a show and while she knew she could sing, and that Paula and Randy were very happy with her work, and that the audiences were responding, it was a little niggle that she wasn't conquering this unexpected challenge.   Not that she felt particularly competitive with her fellow leads—the show had been built around Jen, after all, and rightfully so.  She had a big voice and a big personality to go with it.  As for Kat, even when she wasn't singing that well she was so willing to do whatever Mr. Cowell said that it was like watching a puppy dutifully fetching a stick again and again, happy for nothing more than a kind word and a scratch on the back.  Never mind that she was gorgeous, though Kim didn't think that Mr. Cowell was personally swayed by that.  
   
But Kim had a little too much dignity to be so obedient.  While she was happy to grow from criticism, she did know what she was doing.  And Mr. Cowell's comments were always frustratingly vague.  No technical notes as with Paula or Randy, but problems with songs that she hadn't actually chosen, or what overall emotion she was trying to get across, or who she was as a singer.  She had an unhappy suspicion that he didn't exactly know what to do with her, and in any event didn't find her particularly memorable.  After all, that first night at the Pyramid, he hadn't said anything to Paula and Randy about Kim's singing, only suggestions about Kat and Jen.   
   
She set the book aside and headed down stairs to see what leftovers were in the icebox, vowing to herself _not_ to reach for another piece of pie just because she was feeling a little low.  Well not low really, but uncertain.  She turned the radio on softly, then found a small bowl of string beans and a _Times_ someone had left on the kitchen table—surely Randy; she couldn't imagine anyone else reading it.  There wasn't much news—the Polish government-in-exile had arrived in London; construction was starting on the Jefferson Memorial; Capone was about to be released from prison.  She heard a voice in the hall.  
   
"Now Mrs. Studdard, what are you—oh, it's you, Kim," said Paula.  "Why aren't you out on the town, like the others?"  
   
"Oh, I just wanted a quiet night at home for a change," she replied.  
   
Paula slipped off her wrap and turned up a flame under the kettle.  "You aren't still worried about Simon, are you?"  
   
Kim shrugged.  "I thought it was a good song."  
   
"It is," she replied, as she fixed up a teapot and brought two cups over to the table.  "It's just not a great song.  And you deserve a great song, it's true."  
   
"I sing it well," Kim said.  
   
"You sing everything well," Paula said.  "That's why we have you in the show.  But for the radio—Simon's right about one thing.  You should have a song where you can really shine, and I know that you can because I've seen it!"  
   
Kim smiled a little.  "Thanks."  
   
"But that's the _only_ thing that man is right about.  We might not be able to put something in the show..."  
   
"I know," Kim said.  "Jen."  
   
"Well, not that Jen is particularly _sensitive_," she said with a little grin that made Kim snicker, "but we can't have two strong personalities in one revue.  On the radio, however, there's no reason for you to be in anyone's shadow."  
   
Kim nodded.  "Okay."  
   
"Good!" Paula said, pouring the water into the teapot.  "Now forget about Simon Cowell!  What does he know; he's not a singer anyway, right?"  
   
"Right!" Kim said.  She poked at the beans a bit with her fork.  "So you were out with Mr. Fuller again tonight?"  
   
Paula grinned from ear to ear.  "He is such a gentleman!  We went to dinner with a friend of his who works in the government, some lord something-or-other but I couldn't get it straight so he said I should just call him 'Tom' and so I did!  Oh, such lovely people, too!"  She looked down at the paper, and then sighed.  "Oh, what is happening in the world.  You know there are some people working to bring the little Jewish children here, to be safe.  I met a rabbi tonight who is doing such work.  We can't take anyone in, of course, but maybe I'll bring him here for dinner and introduce him to you girls."  
   
"Charity work is good for the soul," Kim said.  
   
"That's right," Paula said, pouring out the now-brewed tea.  "So tell me, are you excited about the airmen coming to the show next week?  There are some colored men; you might find yourself a fella after all."  
   
Kim smiled.  "Oh I don't know.  Those flyboys are a bit glamorous for me."  
   
Paula cocked her head.  "But Kim, you're a lead singer in a hit revue.  You're pretty glamorous yourself."  
   
"Maybe," she said, and poked at the beans some more.  "But I sure don't feel like it."

* * *

_17 November 1939_

Amanda had spent the entire week, it seemed, with half her body inside a bomber engine, and she couldn't have been happier.  Oh, barnstorming had been fun in its way, and Chris sure loved it, but it hadn't been a real _challenge_ for her, mechanically.  But now she had two different engines under her belt and she was learning a third and she felt just flat-out useful in a way that she never had when her mother was showing her how to arrange flowers or set an elegant table.  Her back ached a little; because she was small, she had to lift her feet off the ground and balance her waist on the edge of the engine to reach everything, which wasn't particularly ladylike even in her jumpsuit.  And once the boys learned that a smack on her behind (friendly, lecherous or otherwise) would be returned in kind (albeit a bit harder) they'd got over it.

She was perched precariously in the engine of a Hampden bomber when she heard steps approaching.  "Castro?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

"Um, yeah," he said—he must have ducked his head under the hood because his voice echoed against the skin of the plane.  "Uh, those two reporters are here?"

"Oh, fuck," she said.  "Forgot all about that.  Can they hold on for a minute?"

"Um, yeah, when I said they were here?  I meant, right here."

"So you just let me sit here with my ass hangin' out?  Jesus!"  She ducked her head and slid out of the engine until her feet hit the ground.  "Sorry about that, Mister…" She turned the face the reporters, hand outstretched.

"It's Miss.  Miss DePandi," said the devastatingly beautiful girl, who held out her hand.  "Sgt. Overmyer, pleased to meet you," she said, with a charming accent Amanda couldn't quite place—probably Italian, to match the name.

"Hi!  Uh," she pulled back her hand and wiped it on the rag that hung from her waist.  "Amanda, please call me Amanda," she said, smiling.

"Giuliana," the dream girl replied.  She was tall and slim in her blue polka-dotted dress and wedges.  An adorable hat was perched atop a pile of chestnut hair, and Amanda could just see a hint of cleavage in the sweetheart neckline.

"Well, real nice to meet you.  Uh," Amanda looked around for a place to sit that wouldn't stain or tear the dress.  "Here," she said, putting a clean cloth over a nearby stool.  "Have a seat."

"Thank you," Giuliana said.  "This is my producer, Miss Hennessey."

Amanda looked up—she hadn't noticed the other girl standing behind Giuliana in a plain suit and brimmed hat, a case slung over one shoulder, and sensible shoes.  "Miss Hennessey," she said, nodding.

"Sergeant," she replied. 

"So," she said, pulling another stool around for Miss Hennessey before sitting down herself on the step ladder, "Capt. Johns said another reporter would be coming to talk to me but he didn't say it would be a _lady_ reporter."

"We wanted to get the woman's perspective," Giuliana said.  "Ready?" she asked her companion.

"Yes," Miss Hennessey said.  She was holding the same sort of microphone that Amanda remembered Seacrest and McHale carrying a few days ago.  "We're rolling."

"Ryan asked you some of these questions," Giuliana started, "but what is your background?"

"Well, I was born in Virginia, to an old family, and my mama and Pilot-Officer Christopher Richardson's mama are friends—they spent a season in London together; that's how his parents met.  So we grew up together, and he was my escort at the cotillion—"

"Cotillion?" she asked.

"Coming-out ball?"

"You were a debutante?" Miss Hennessey asked.

Amanda grinned.  "I know I'm no Brenda Frazier now," she said, indicating her grease-stained jumpsuit.  She looked at Giuliana. "But I do clean up well."

Giuliana cleared her throat.  "I'm sure you do."

"Anyway, after that I went to Smith, Mama's alma mater, and Chris beauxed me around because he was at Harvard, but we're really just old friends.  He had a very temperamental little sport car and I was better at fixing it than he was, which started the whole thing.  When he decided to learn to fly, I learned that engine, too, and after we were graduated we greatly disappointed our parents by taking off with the air circus.  Kinda rough-and-tumble at first, but I got used to it and I think I'm more myself now in a jumpsuit fixing engines than when I was wearing pretty dresses and learning the difference between a fish fork and a salad fork.  Put an edge on my accent, too, which I think horrified Mama more than anything else, since I always was a tomboy.  We barnstormed across the country for a few years, and then we read about Hitler and went right up to Canada."

"How is it to be the only female?"

"But I'm not.  There are females all over the base, and not just in the office, but in the radar tower, too.  That's who I bunk with.  But if you mean out here on the airfield, I guess I'm used to it—there was a girl pilot or two in the air circus but never a girl mechanic.  I can handle the men.  It's the women who give me trouble."  She was flirting outrageously now, but what did she care?  She'd barely seen a girl out of uniform since Calgary, and she wasn't about to attempt an affair in the barracks, not that any of her bunkmates appealed.  But a girl reporter, now that was just her speed; she'd certainly bedded many of them during her travels.

"Can you tell me more about how you handle the men?"

"Sure," Amanda said, smiling.  "You can ask me anything."

* * *

Simon was in his office, the turntable out, trying to find a new song to suggest for Kimberley Locke, when Carly returned from the RAF station.  It only took one look to see that she was in a _mood_.  "How did it go?" he asked.

"Oh _fine_," she replied, though the way she thumped the remote case down on her desk indicated otherwise.

Giuliana was just behind her.  "Carly, I am so sorry." She sat down in one of the extra chairs.

"I told you, it isn't your fault at all."

Simon picked up his phone and dialed.  "The girls are back, so you may as well come over," he said, and hung up.

Joel and Ryan popped in seconds later and closed the door behind them.  "How was the interview?" Ryan asked as he hopped up onto Simon's desk.

"It really was fine," Carly said.  "Giuliana did a great job; she wasn't nervous at all.  A real natural.  But that Sgt. Overmyer!"

"Did she clam up?" Ryan asked.

"No, the opposite," Giuliana said.  "She flirted her way through the interview."

"With Carly?" Simon asked.

"No, with me," Giuliana said.  She slumped down into a chair.  "I am sorry, Carly."

"It's not your fault you're so pretty, honey," Carly said.  "And anyway, she's not my type."

"Riiight," Simon said.  "What was she wearing?"

"Oh, one of those jumpsuits," Giuliana said.

"Don't look at me like that, Simon," Carly said.

"She's just your type and you know it.  Since I've known you every girl you've dated dressed like a man.  Sometimes I wonder why you date women at all."

"Simon!"

"We told Captain Johns about the revue and he was very enthusiastic," Giuliana said to Ryan.  "He requested Tuesday night."

"And when we mentioned it to that sergeant," Carly said, "she asked if Giuliana would be there!"

"I tried to help!  I said we'd _both_ be there!"

"So now she's 'that sergeant'?" Simon asked.

"Don't tease," Carly said.

"Maybe it was the suit," Simon said.  "It's rather severe."

"This is what I usually wear when I'm out of the studio.  It's professional."

"Yes," Simon said, "but it isn't particularly flattering."

"You should talk!"

"I'm not trying to get anyone to look at me."

"Well, not now," Carly said, nodding her head toward Ryan.

"Careful, Carly."

"Maybe Overmyer just likes girls in pretty dresses," Joel said.

"You'll be wearing a dress to the revue anyway, right?" Ryan asked.

"Of course, but—"

"So we'll get you a very nice one," Simon said, "and make sure that Giuliana's suitor escorts her that evening."

"Why do I suddenly feel like Cinderella?" Carly asked.

"Talk about your fairy godmothers," Joel said, which earned him a smack on the back of the head from Ryan.

* * *

Amanda spent more time than she'd initially expected in the sunny, pleasant WAAF rec room, as the radar operators she shared her barracks with were smart and interesting when they weren't talking about future husbands, and it was good to get a break from the boys from time to time.  But after her interview with Miss DePandi she needed some masculinity around her, and on Fridays there was always poker in the rec room set aside for the Canadians and Australians.  She'd earned her invite to the game back in Calgary, where the boys had learned what a good bluffer she was; some of them were still trying to earn that money back from her.

When she walked in most of the men were ambling about the room, chatting, and the radio was on the big band show—Benny Goodman at that moment.   Josh Gracin, the Squadron 12 pilot who ran the game, sat at the table with chips and the small cash box; Squadron 15 pilot Ace Young was compulsively shuffling a deck.  "Where's Cook?" she asked, straddling the back of one of the chairs.

"Johns took him and Lt. Rogers out a few minutes ago," Young said.  "Dunno why." 

"You playin' tonight?" Gracin asked.

"Yep," she replied, taking her wallet out of her jumpsuit.  She looked about the room and saw that nearly everyone from both squadrons was there, not unusual so soon after dinner.  With alternating training schedules, and the hullabaloo over the colored pilots, the squadrons had become two close-knit units who only overlapped occasionally, usually in the rec room.  The Squadron 15 pilots were a collection of buddies: Young and Daughtry, Robinson and Rogers, married men Stacey and Bice, and of course Chris and Blake.  The men sat on a clump of chairs in the corner, somewhat protectively around the two colored pilots, talking animatedly, though Robinson had a novel in his hand as he often did.  Near the radio, laughing and carrying on, were the Squadron 12 pilots Amanda thought of as the "good-time boys," loosely led by Guarini into a good amount of late night trouble.  On the other side of the room were the men who hung around with Hicks, a pilot and two mechanics who, like Hicks, took themselves very seriously and were displeased about the presence of Robinson and Rogers, never mind Robinson's leadership role. 

Sgt. Lewis took a seat next to Amanda at the table.  "Overmyer," he said nodding to her.

"Come to give me your money, Lewis?" Amanda asked.

"I can hold my own against you," he replied. 

"No you can't, JP," Gracin said.  Lewis had been Gracin's mechanic before the war and joined up with him, just as Amanda had with Chris.  The two men kept aloof from their divided squadron, often spending more recreational time with Squadron 15. 

Grigsby, Amanda's fellow mechanic, snickered as he sat down next to Young.  Castro sat nearby, a guitar in his hands, softly playing a counter melody to the music on the radio.  He liked to watch the game, said he liked the way the cards made patterns on the table.  Amanda didn't know what he meant, really, but Castro often saw things others didn't, so she didn't worry too much.

Now that there were five at the table, Young dealt out the first hand.  Amanda had crap, and folded after the ante; Grigsby had the cards, and he won a modest pot.  Young was just about to deal the second hand when footsteps followed by the scraping of chairs announced Capt. Johns's presence in the room.

"As you were, men," he said as he walked toward the center of the room followed by Lt. Cook and Lt. Rogers.  Guarini turned off the radio.  "I've come to let you know that we've been invited to London to see an American jazz music revue, with girl singers, chorus girls, the usual, on Tuesday evening."  A cheer went up from the men, and it was smiles all around, but Johns was waving his hands.  "Wait a moment, wait a moment, now.  First, this is a high-class supper club, not a—what did you call it, Cook?"

"Honky-tonk, sir," Cook said.

"Honky-tonk.  That means dress uniforms—the civilians there will be in evening clothes."  The good-time boys slumped a bit at that news. "And one more thing," Johns went on.  "Both the club and the revue are mixed race."

"White girls dancing with colored men?" Sgt. Covington asked.

"No," Lt. Rogers answered.  "The dancers and singers are all female, but they're colored and white.  The band is colored.  The audience is mixed, so I can't speak to that."

"Colored girls dancing with white girls is enough for me," Hicks said.  "Doesn't seem like the sort of thing a white man in uniform should attend."

"Your feelings on that matter have been noted, Hicks," Johns said.  "No one is required to attend."

"Then I'll _pass_," Hicks said.

"That's fine," Johns replied.  "I will be going, myself."

Amanda saw Hicks stop just short of pulling a face, but Lt. Rogers was staring him down.

"Now, how many of you men would like to go?  As I said, it is not required."

Amanda raised her hand, as did the other men at the table.  She turned and looked around the room, and was unsurprised to see that the only members of Hicks's squadron who wanted to go were Lewis and Gracin.

"All right, thank you.  That will be all."  Capt. Johns left the room, motioning for Rogers and Cook to follow.

"Damned unnatural," Hicks muttered.

"Aww, c'mon now," Guarini said.  "Live and let live, y'know?"

"I think it's nice," his buddy Helton added.  "Give you boys the chance to meet some pretty colored girls."  
 "Naw," Hicks said, moving to stand closer to Robinson's chair.  "I reckon they want to get their hands on some o'those pretty white girls."

The entire room was holding its breath but Robinson, who'd been flipping through a Life magazine since Johns walked out, didn't even look up.  "I don't know what the fuss is about," he said, quietly.  "I've had white girls and they didn't seem much different."

Hicks moved fast but Robinson was faster, up and out of that chair before Hicks could lunge at him.  "You goddamned—" Hicks muttered, charging again, and Robinson grabbed his hands before Hicks could get them around Robinson's neck.  All the other men were standing, watching Hicks and Robinson struggle, but emotion worked against Hicks and he couldn't pull back enough to get in a good punch. 

"Knock it off!" bellowed a voice at the door, and then Lt. Rogers had Hicks up against the wall, one hand on his chest.  "I am _not_ in the mood for this shit from you, Hicks.  Save it for the Germans.  You don't like it, you can go back to the States, because the RCAF can get along without you just fine, good pilot or not.  Got it?"

Hicks nodded, still staring at Robinson.  Lt. Cook, who had come in just behind Rogers, stood in front of Robinson.

"I'm sorry, did you hear me?"

Hicks turned his head to face Rogers.  "Yes sir."

Rogers let go and Hicks moved his shoulders, as though he'd shaken him off.  "That goes for the rest of you too," Rogers said, looking around.  "Once we get up into the air, it's us and them, and if you don't start working together, they'll pick you off one by one."

Everyone was silent, looking around at each other, or at the floor.  Then Cook said, "Is there still a poker game going?"

Guarini turned the radio back on and the airmen went back to their conversations.  Cook pulled up a chair next to Grigsby, where he could see the whole room, and handed some cash to Gracin.  Hicks was still staring daggers at Robinson, but the other pilot didn't seem to pay attention, and Chris, Blake and Daughtry had closed ranks around him anyway. 

"I'll tell you what," Young said, "I am looking forward to meeting some goddamned girls.  Uh, no offense Overmyer."

"You're not my type anyway, Young," she replied.  "I don't like boys who are prettier than I am."

Cook laughed.  "I bet the boys in the band will be more your type than this bunch."

"Don't worry about me," Amanda said, smiling as she thought of pretty little Miss DePandi.  "I'll be just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _His Girl Friday_ (dir. Howard Hawks, 1941) is a romantic comedy starring Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant.
>
>> _Their story shouldn't be in just the black press. But maybe one of those affiliates that play race records will want the audio._
> 
> "Race records" was the term of the time for songs from black singers. While even then there were a few black singers who had "crossed over", they usually sang in a white style. The music that was made by blacks, for blacks, was strictly segregated onto its own radio stations that few whites listened to. However, those white that did listen to race records in the 40s were in the forefront of rock and roll in the 50s.
>
>> _I know I'm no Brenda Frazier now, but I do clean up well._
> 
> Brenda Frazier was the "deb of the decade" in the 1930s. After her coming out into society in December 1938, she was often photographed for fashion magazines and was on the cover of _Life_, which was the _People_ of its day. She's one of the "glamour girls" Ryan refers to at the start of the next chapter. 


	5. Bringing Up Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night to dance, and a day to give thanks.

_21 November 1939_

Carly Hennessey stood in the middle of Ryan and Joel's living room, modeling the fourth dress she'd tried on that evening.

"White is not your color," Simon said.

"A lot of women wear it," Ryan added, "so you won't stand out."

"And you don't look comfortable," Giuliana said.  "You can't sell the dress if you don't feel good in it."

Carly smoothed her hands over the white satin that clung to her hips and waist.  "Joel?  What do you think?"

"You look like the cat's pyjamas—"

"No one talks like that anymore," Ryan muttered.

"—but I'd still like to see the blue one."

Carly nodded, and just as she was about to go back to Ryan's bedroom to change there was a knock on the door, which Joel answered.

"You must be Bill!  Come in; have some champagne.  I'm Joel."

Ryan walked up.  "Hi, I'm Ryan, nice to meet you."

Bill had a very firm handshake and a square-jawed all-American handsomeness, like he'd walked out of one of those college films playing the football hero.  He worked in real estate and had been sent to London to manage properties for some corporation in Chicago.  He took the champagne Ryan offered and walked right over to Giuliana.  From the look on his face he approved of her chocolate-brown gown.

"Just in time," she said.  "What do you think of this dress for Carly?"

"Um, it's pretty?" he replied.

"Thank you, Bill," Carly said, and went to change. 

"So," Bill said, turning to Ryan, "you're …"

"I'm?"

"With him?" he asked, pointing to Simon.

"Um … we're dating," Ryan said.

Simon nodded.  "We're dating," he said, and Ryan was relieved—he wasn't sure what to call it.

"And you, Joel?" Bill asked.

"I have a lovely wife at home in LA, but thanks for asking!"

"I didn't mean—"

"No," Joel said, waving a hand.  "It's fine.  It's a reasonable assumption about show biz.  Also France."

"Joel, that's not actually true," Ryan protested.

"C'mon, we've got you two, and we're fancying up Carly for some lady mechanic, and that's just in this room."

"No, I meant about the French.  You have to be more careful.  We're in Europe now."

"No you're not," Simon said, stamping out a cigarette.  "You're in England.  And I'd reckon the average bloke down the pub feels the same about the French as Joel does."

"What'd I tell you, Seacrest?" Joel said, waggling his fingers.  "Magic!"

"Well, what about this one?" Carly said.

They turned and, it seemed to Ryan, all gasped at once.  The gown fit her body much as the white one had, clinging and skimming as bias-cut satin does, but the color, a deep royal blue with a jade green design in the neckline, waist and sleeves, made it a different dress entirely.  Her blue eyes, always striking, stood out even more. 

"Now _that_," Simon said, "is more like it."  He took her hand and twirled her around, making her giggle.  "That white washed you out, but this blue makes you look bright and lively, puts a bit of color on those cheeks."

"I think that's because I'm blushing!" she replied.

"How do you _feel_ in it?" Giuliana asked.

"It makes me want to stand up straight," Carly said.  "I don't know—I want to say comfortable, but that's not right.  It feels like my dress."

"And so it shall be," Simon said.

"Simon—"

"No, Carly, please.  You're a very pretty girl and it pleases me to see you looking like one."

She reminded Ryan of the early color tests he'd seen of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara—dark hair, ruby red lips, bright eyes brought out by her dress.  Her cheeks, rosy despite powder, kept her from achieving the "white look" all the glamour girls in Manhattan were going for, but it suited Carly.  And yet, Ryan couldn't keep his eyes off Simon, sleek as a panther in his tuxedo, brown eyes shining with his usual delight in being right or at least in seeing a thing done properly.  Ryan was falling with the usual speed, and yet despite that it didn't _feel_ reckless or heedless like it usually did.  But every time before had had its own feel, too. Still, he'd only be in London until the US entered the war, which he hoped would be very soon, so it probably wouldn't come to much anyway.

"We should get going," Giuliana said, and they all began grabbing wraps and coats.

"No, no," Joel said as Simon went to take Carly's arm.  "The heterosexual gets to escort the pretty girl."

* * *

Backstage was humming with energy.  The dancers couldn't wait to meet the soldiers and "show them a good time" as Paula had asked—though Kim was pretty sure that their idea of a good time and Paula's didn't match.  The band was irritable that they would soon have some real competition:  Americans with all the romance and masculinity of a soldier, rather than the namby pamby Brits who came to the stage door.  Sure, some of them had money, but none were what they'd call real men except maybe a few limey soldiers.  No, they were more like that Simon Cowell, the sort of fellow that floated around the entertainment business, talented enough that their peculiarities were tolerated so long as they stayed out of sight.  Besides, it meant more girls for the real men.

Kim had been deemed a "real gal" by the band, one of the gang in a way, mostly because she'd steadfastly rejected their advances but wasn't deemed a miss priss like Kat.  It was the kind of sisterly vibe she liked having with a band.  Though she could do without hearing their opinions on sexual matters, they looked out for her at after hours clubs, intimidating unwanted suitors and making sure she got back to the house safely.

For herself, Kim was mostly interested in the soldiers as a new audience.  Jen had heard from Paula that some of them were colored, even some of the pilots.  Flying a plane took guts _and_ brains; she'd known a boy at Morehouse who'd learned how, so Kim was interested in talking to this colored pilot.  But she suspected that Kat, or Jen, or Paula would dictate with whom she spoke during the breaks.

Hearing her name, she turned to see her musical director.  "Yes, Randy?"

He handed her some sheet music.  "New song."

"Changing the show already?"

"No."  He rubbed the back of his neck.  "Cowell thinks you should go back into the station and sing it."

Kim nodded.  "I see."

"Man.  Kim, you know your song isn't the best one you could be singing."

"Good for the show."

"Yeah, well, the show isn't _you_."

She looked at the music.  " 'Azure.'  Okay."

"Okay?  Yeah?  Because I was thinking about a solo guitar arrangement, y'know, just you and me."

Kim smiled.  "I'd like that."

"Great.  I gotta get the boys on stage but y'know, don't worry about Cowell, man.  He likes you.  He just thinks you're ready for more—and so do I.  You dig?"

"Yeah.  Thanks, Randy."

He nodded, and off he went.  She looked through the music, sight-singing softly.  So Mr. Cowell thought she was ready for more, did he?

She'd show him.  She was more than ready.

* * *

Considering the alternative, Amanda found she didn't mind wearing her dress uniform.  At least she didn't have to wear any damned necklace or flowers in her hair.  No, the cap, button-down shirt and necktie suited her just fine, and even the shoes were relatively sensible. 

Chris, of course, looked like a movie star, but the other boys cleaned up pretty nice too.  They'd all been working hard, and Captain Johns had let some standards slide, most noticeably shaving, and nearly all the boys had taken full advantage.  What was it with pilots that they liked to be so scruffy?  But now they were clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed—even their fingernails were clean.

Amanda and Chris of course had been to many a supper club in Charleston, Richmond, Boston while they were at school, even New York. But the other boys were dazzled just walking in the door, seeing men checking hats and top coats with the coat check girl, the myriad tables with their crisp white tablecloths and champagne in buckets nearby, being whisked by the maître d' to a spot right at the edge of the stage marked RESERVED.

She heard a cheery "hello" and there was Ryan Seacrest coming to shake hands with them.  Giuliana was there, too, wearing a gown as well as Amanda hoped she might, chestnut hair in an updo that revealed bare, gleaming shoulders.  She waved, and Amanda noticed the man behind her, looking solicitous.  Ah well, can't win 'em all.

Giuliana tapped the shoulder of a girl who stood next to her, her back facing Amanda, porcelain skin in a blue gown with dark hair cascading past her shoulder blades.  The girl turned in mid-laugh and she looked even better from the front, all rosy cheeks and blue eyes.

"Huh," Amanda said.

"What?" Castro asked.

"That girl looks familiar but—"

"Overmyer, you met that girl two days ago."

"No, not the one in brown, the girl in blue."

"Like I said.  They came together."

Amanda looked back, cocked her head.  "That girl in the suit?"

"Man, you girls, it's all hair and dresses and such," he said, gesturing vaguely.  "But ya can't change your face."

"Huh," she said again as Chris pulled out a chair for her.

A small pretty woman came flying over to the table, her feathered coat floating as she moved, a rather serious man in tow.  "Hello, hello," she said, waving.  "I'm Paula Abdul and this is Simon Fuller, and we want to welcome you.  His club, my show, with Randy over there on the bandstand."  She gestured to the mid-sized combo, though the musicians seemed to be glaring at them.  "Well," Paula went on, "the floor show will start very soon, and in the meantime have a drink on us!"  She waved again, then hurried on to other tables, and as the boys sat back down Amanda realized the man with Paula hadn't said a word.  Hadn't even tried.

A sidecar materialized at her elbow—being the woman in Chris's life had its advantages.  He leaned in close.  "That girl in blue's been giving you the not-eye," he said, using a term they'd coined for the deniable-ogling that often happened early in homosexual flirting. "She's a looker."

"She didn't look like that when she came to interview me," Amanda said.  "She looked like that French tutor your sister had."

Chris shuddered.  "Well, she certainly has her hair down now."

"Who?" Blake asked.  He was on the other side of Chris, so he leaned back and put his arm across the back of Chris's chair, ostensibly to poke Amanda, but that was just a cover for an "accidental" stroke of Chris's back. 

Amanda struggled not to smile a little at that, but she couldn't help glancing around the room to make sure no one noticed.  "Her name is Miss Hennessey.  One of the lady reporters.  In blue."

Blake didn't bother with not looking obvious—he turned, gaining himself another brush against Chris, looked at Miss Hennessey, and let out a low wolf whistle.  "That is one juicy tomato."

"Blake, we're in mixed company," Chris scolded.

Blake didn't answer, just smiled back, rakishly, and Chris shook his head.

"Show's about to start anyway," Amanda said, turning to face the stage.

* * *

Simon had placed himself at the end of the long table.  He'd seen the show several times, after all; it would be more entertaining to watch the reactions of the soldiers.  And for all the visual spectacle Paula had crafted so well, his highest compliment was that the show was also a joy to listen to.  Ryan had challenged him earlier, saying that Joel was sure, in that odd way of his, that one of the American pilots was a homosexual.  Simon was fairly positive he'd be able to tell by watching them watch, or really in a way, not watch, since the show was entirely female.  He'd also been well positioned to see Sgt. Overmyer's reaction to Carly in her dress.  She kept staring, as well she should, and her friend, a little blond pilot, had fairly openly ogled her—which, given what Simon knew about the military from personal experience, was a bit of a tell.

So he spent the show watching the blond—Lewis, if he remembered correctly from Ryan's intros, but he was shit for names which was why he'd jumped at the chance to move from journo to critic.  The Captain was an Aussie, and the Lieutenant was regular Canadian Army, so they were right out.  Two of the pilots were married, so if they preferred men that was _their_ problem.  He couldn't tell with colored men and he doubted Joel could either.  That left four:  the blond, his almost obscenely handsome chum, a happy pretty one with broad shoulders and muscular arms, and a quiet one who seemed rather intense.  He watched them closely during the show, sneaking occasional glances at Ryan because he liked to and also because Ryan himself was having fun watching him watching.

He was a beat late in turning around to watch Katharine, who wouldn't take his lack of eye contact as well as the others, but the look on the intense pilot's face spoke volumes, and he had to draw Ryan's attention to it.  He was like a googly-eyed cartoon, watching Katharine make her slinky walk to the microphone.  Well, strike him off the list.  And the pretty boy as well, who'd shown a great deal of interest in the dancers.

"So?" Ryan asked, when the show had ended.  Their friends were dancing, Joel moving Carly about in such a way as to show her off to Sgt. Overmyer to best effect.  The other pilots had gone to the bar, leaving the blond, his chum, and Overmyer behind.

"It's the little blond sitting there."

"Lewis.  Pilot-Officer Blake Lewis.  That's your choice?"

"Definitely.  It isn't Joel's?"

"No.  He said Lewis's buddy, Richardson."

"The handsome one?"

"Yeah.  Childhood friends with Sgt. Overmyer.  They barnstormed together."

"But I say—"

If they hadn't been watching at that precise moment and thinking about such things, they would have missed it.  Overmyer stood up, no doubt to go to the powder room, and Lewis and Richardson rose when she did.  As they sat back down, their hands tangled and they each squeezed before letting go.  It had lasted only an instant, but it was there.

Simon and Ryan quickly looked at each other, not wanting the men to know they'd been seen.  "Well," Simon said.

"I guess you and Joel were both right," Ryan replied.

* * *

Kim double checked her lipstick in the mirror.  The dancers would have to change, but the outfits she, Jen and Kat wore for the final number were just evening dresses, so Paula was rushing them out to entertain the American squadron.  They'd certainly been an appreciative audience, applauding and cheering for all the girls.  She knew the boys in the band would be almost unfit for company after they spent a set watching the soldiers dance with the girls in the show, but they'd had it pretty good for a while now and they could use a little competition.  Especially for Jen, and Kim was very sure that one or both of the colored soldiers would go for her beauty and confidence.  Not that Kim wasn't both, but her particular combination of the two was not what men looked for in a woman, at least in her experience. 

When Paula led the three girls back out onto the floor, Kim saw that chairs had materialized on the stage-side of the soldiers' long table.  After the introductions Kim fought an urge to talk to that girl sergeant about her experiences and moved to sit opposite the married men, but Paula stopped her.  "My place, sweetie.  Now, you go on down there."

Kim had seen Pilot-Officer Daughtry's eyes light up when he was introduced to Kat, though he'd only nodded.  Kat had a bad habit of not noticing when men noticed her unless they were very aggressive, so Kim guided Kat over to him, saying, "I like the look of that colored pilot.  Stay with me and talk to his buddy?"

Kat looked over at Robinson, who was sitting next to Daughtry, and smiled.  "Of course I'll stay with you."

"Really enjoyed your singing, Miss McPhee," Daughtry said, shaking her hand.

"Thank you.  Daughtry, right?"

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Well," Kat said, smiling seductively, "which part did you like _best_?"

Kim turned to hide her grin, and a voice said, "Did you sit in front of me to talk to me, or to listen to Daughtry talk to your friend?"

She looked up, then leaned in.  "A little of both, actually.  I saw the way he looked at her—"

"The whole room saw that."

"Trust me, _she_ didn't."

"So you're matchmaking?" he asked.

"Just nudging.  I'm sure he can take it from here."

"Looks like."

Kim sat back.  "You don't approve?"

"Not my place.  You know your friend better than I."

She paused.  "So, Pilot-Officer Robinson, how long have you been flying?"

"I learned at Morehouse oh, about seven years ago now?"

"Really?  I knew a boy at Morehouse who flew.  I was at Spelman, but I guess few years after you."

"And what is a Spelman girl doing singing in a supper club all the way across the Atlantic?"

"Instead of teaching school? Well, it pays more, which means more money to save and to send home.  I can do this now—plenty of time for the law later."

"Lady lawyer?  You _are_ a Spelman girl."

"Are you teasing me, Robinson?" she asked

"Of course not," he replied, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.  "Everyone knows Spelman girls have no sense of humor."

"Well, singers _do_.  What kind of flying did you do before the war?"

"Cargo, mostly.  Won't let us fly passengers, and it's a steady job—I'm sending money home, too, to my folks in New Jersey. These tough times, not many people can afford to pay the doctor."

"I grew up in Nashville but I've been living the past few years in Harlem. It's so different up north."

He nodded. "My folks moved up in 1917; I hadn't started school yet. Enough folks had come to Camden that they had call for a colored doctor, and he wanted to get us away from, well, he just called it 'the atmosphere.' Didn't want his sons bowing and scraping to anyone."

"But then you went to school in Atlanta."

"Let's just say that when I left campus I kept a low profile," Robinson replied.

Kim nodded, and changed the subject. "Fighter training must have been an exciting change from cargo."

"Not really.  Lindbergh was a mail pilot.  We'd go in all kinds of weather."

"'Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night?'"

"Something like that." 

"Why do they let you fly fighters in the war but not passengers in the peace?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Canada's hard up," he said. "So's England. Guess I made it worth their while to take me."

"Is it worth your while?" she asked. "I imagine some of those pilots, well, might not agree with Canada."

"Happily those pilots aren't with us here tonight."

Kim cocked her head. "Oh," she said, realizing what he meant. "Guess they wouldn't think much of our revue."

Robinson nodded. "I'm not sure you can ever really get away from 'the atmosphere'."

"Especially not when your work puts you among the white folks," Kim agreed.

"Exactly," Robinson said. Then quickly: "Not that I—I mean, some of them are—"

"Yep, some of them are," Kim said.

Robinson looked at her, eyes twinkling devilishly, and they laughed. "Would you like to dance?"

She looked over her shoulder.  Kim was dancing with Daughtry, and the dancers, now changed, were headed to the table.  "You don't want to wait for the girls?"

He scrunched his nose.  "They're a little young."  He stood and held out his hand.

As she let him lead her to the dance floor, she reminded herself that Morehouse men didn't date Spelman women as a rule—after all, men bound for relative wealth and power could have their pick of pretty little society wives, all lighter than a paper bag.  They didn't need to bother with the bluestockings at their sister school. She'd learned that the hard way, when the boy who'd loved her for being clever, or so he'd said, dropped her flat once he'd finished school because "no man wants to talk about books in bed."

But then Robinson's arms were around her, and he _was_ awfully dashing in his uniform, and she thought, well, it won't hurt to pretend for one night.

* * *

"Smashing success," Simon was saying.  "Glad I had the idea."

"You?" Ryan asked.  He rolled his eyes, then leaned forward to get his and Carly's coats from the check girl.  "The important thing is that the airmen had a nice time.  Oh, here she is," he said as Carly approached, Joel in tow, Giuliana and Bill close behind.  Ryan helped Carly into her cloak, and they were waiting for more coats when Sgt. Overmyer walked up and touched Carly on the arm.  "Miss Hennessey?"

Carly's eyes were wide as she looked at Ryan, but when she turned to Sgt. Overmyer her expression was friendly, but neutral.  "Yes, sergeant?"

"I—um—Miss Abdul invited us to their house for Thanksgiving."

"Yes.  She invited us as well."

Overmyer smiled.  "And will you be there?"

Carly put on her best Mona Lisa smile and said, "Yes.  I'm looking forward to it."

"I'm glad.  I didn't get a chance to talk to you tonight."

"Then we should try to find each other on Thursday.  Good night, sergeant."

"Good night Miss Hennessey."

Carly turned and glided out of the club, the rest of the crowd following along.  Once they were out in the street and the door shut behind them, Carly turned around, her eyes open wide.  "Oh my god!"

"Well done!" Simon said, grinning around his cigarette.  Ryan couldn't stop laughing, and he and Carly and Giuliana hugged on the sidewalk, giggling.

"Girls, please," Joel said, as Bill shook his head, smiling at them.

"I'm just glad it's late enough that the pavement is deserted," Simon said, "with all this show you're putting on."

"Oh stop being so bloody _English_," Carly said.

"Let's take these ladies home," Bill said. 

"My things are at your flat, Ryan," Carly said.

"Come back with me," Joel replied.  "You can take Ryan's bed."

"Hey!" Ryan protested.

"Well, it's not like you're coming home tonight, are you?" Joel said.

Ryan looked at Simon, who said, "No."

"We can stay up and gossip and drink cocoa and paint our toenails," Joel continued, wrapping an arm around Carly.

"Now who's the girl," Ryan said.

The little party broke up, the three couples getting into separate cabs, and then Simon said, "I knew he was strange, but he paints his toenails?"

"His wife does it," Ryan said.  "She says since he won't have sex with his socks on, it's to remind him who he belongs to.  She put a bottle of scarlet nail polish into his luggage."

"So it isn't just Joel that's strange, but his wife as well."

"Are you surprised?"

"Well, sometimes odd people end up with very normal people.  I only wonder if they have children."

"They'll probably be more normal than any of the rest of us," Ryan said.

* * *

_23 November 1939_

Simon was, in general, dubious about American holidays that he considered "made up" like Mother's Day, or Thanksgiving. But Ryan was so excited about Paula's invitation for Thanksgiving that he insisted that Carly, Simon and Giuliana come along to the dinner on Thursday afternoon.  Ryan and Joel had been invited, and Ryan was also bringing his teenaged charge, small David. Once they arrived at Paula's house, Simon realized why Ryan had been giggling about it since Tuesday.

Simon had never seen a table so groaning with food, nor heard of a holiday that was solely, and openly, just about eating.  Leave it to the Yanks.  With such a crowd of soldiers, reporters and performers, the meal was being served buffet-style. The large dining room table was covered with dishes, some Simon recognized and some he very much did not.  The enormous mahogany-skinned turkey sat on a large platter in the middle of the table, and a large colored woman was stirring gravy in a boat.  A few of the other girls in the show—Kimberley Locke and a few dancers—bustled in and out of the room as well, aprons covering their Sunday dresses.  Simon greeted Kim with a peck on the cheek.

Ryan, of course, was beside himself.  "Mrs. Studdard, this looks amazing," he said, hugging the woman.  "I haven't had sweet potatoes since I got to England."

"Mr. Seacrest, thank you so much for sending this lovely bird," she replied.  "It almost didn't fit in the oven!"

"Please, I was happy to do it.  Thank you for inviting this crowd.  I know it will mean a lot to the airmen."

Kim placed a basket of large, round rolls on the table.

"Ryan, where are those American biscuits you're always on about?" Simon asked.

"Not at Thanksgiving; Thanksgiving is rolls," Ryan said. "Biscuits are every day."

"Y'all should come by for dinner some other day," Kim said.  "Mandisa's biscuits are almost as good as my mama's."

"Oh, now," Mrs. Studdard said, and when she grinned Simon could see how young she really was.

"What else should I look for?" Simon asked.

"Well," Ryan said, very seriously, "I always take a very small amount of everything the first time through, and then you know what you'll want the second time. But dressing and sweet potatoes and greens are a must."

"The second time?" Simon asked.

"Some of these boys will have thirds and fourths," Kim said, finding room for a pot of lima beans. 

"And save room for pie," Mrs. Studdard added.  "We have about fifteen pies on the sideboard."

One of the airmen popped his head in the door.  "Miss Locke?" he asked.

She looked up and smiled.  "Oh, hello," she said.  "Mrs. Studdard, I'd like to introduce you to Pilot-Officer Robinson.  Mrs. Studdard takes care of us here at the house."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, nodding his head.  "I don't mean to interrupt, I just wanted to bring Miss Locke a little something."  He had his hat in hand, and from under it he pulled a small black-eyed susan.  "We always gave our mama a flower for her dress, so I wanted to bring one for you."

"Oh!  Well, thank you," she said, pulling the top of her apron off over her head so Robinson could pin the flower to her dress.

"I'm glad to see you already have one, Mrs. Studdard," he said, "or this would have gone to you."

Kim had to smile—such manners, such a change from the boys in the band!

"My husband takes good care of me," Mrs. Studdard replied, touching the red amaryllis pinned to her own dress.

"Mrs. Studdard, your husband is here in London?" Simon asked.

"Simon, you met him," Ryan said.  "He's the bartender at the Pyramid.  Ruben?"

"Right, sorry, no head for names I'm afraid.  Well, we should get out of your way," he said, moving toward the door.

"If you could, ask Ruben to come in and carve the turkey, and we'll get started," Mrs. Studdard said.

"Of course, of course," Simon said.

"Where should we say the blessing?" Kim asked.  "I don't think we can all fit in here."

"Mercy," Mrs. Studdard said.  "Let's ask Miss Abdul."

Paula was in the living room with Katharine McPhee, Simon Fuller, owner of the Pyramid, and another man Simon didn't recognize, a small man with bright blue eyes and a brown beard, wearing a little scull cap.  "Let's do that in here," she said, turning to the man.  "Rabbi?"

"I believe you airmen have a chaplain here," the man said to Robinson in an accent Simon couldn't quite place—Turkey or Palestine, perhaps.

"Yes, that would be Reverend Sligh; I'll take you to him," Robinson said.

After they moved away, Kat said to Kim, "Rabbi Yamin was telling us all about the kindertransport.  They're still bringing little Jewish children out of the Netherlands and Belgium.  It's so tragic; I had no idea."

Ryan nodded.  "Difficult story to get into America," he said.  "No one wants to do the 'Jewish story', especially the Jewish reporters in the mainstream press, so it stays in the Yiddish papers."

Kat shook her head.  "Well, I'm going to help on my day off," she said, "and mornings."

A large man in uniform, with close-cropped curly hair and glasses, was calling for their attention.  "Rabbi Yamin and I have been asked to bless this gathering, and I want to start by giving thanks for the Rabbi and his work bringing children out of Europe."

There was a mixture of applause and amens.  Rabbi Yamin added, "And I want to thank you men, including Reverend Sligh here, for coming across the Atlantic to help us in our fight, and hope that you will not be needed."

Then Reverend Sligh bowed his head, and the others in the room followed suit, many holding hands.  Kim took hold of Simon's, with a little smile, and he smiled back.  He looked about the room and many of the men standing next to each other were holding hands as well, so he boldly took hold of Ryan's hand.  Ryan looked at Simon out of the corner of his eye and squeezed his hand.  Simon wondered if it was wrong to use the excuse of prayer to hold hands with his—boyfriend? lover? something else?—but reckoned that they could benefit from a blessing just as much as anyone.  And in all this woolgathering, he'd missed Sligh's beginning.

"Bless these men in their mission to protect us all," he was saying, every sentence seconded by scattered "amens" and "mm-hhms" from the group, "and Prime Minister Chamberlain and President Roosevelt for leading us through these hard times.  Bless these talented artists for reminding us of all that we are fighting for.  Bless these reporters for making the truth known.  We all give thanks for friends and family and loved ones far away, and for our new friends here in London.  Bless all of us assembled here, bless this country, and God bless America.  Amen."

Heads came back up, and Ryan gave his hand another squeeze before letting go, which reminded Simon of those two young airmen in the club. He saw them across the room, with some others but standing next to each other, and wondered if they'd done as he and Ryan had.  Simon stepped back into the stairwell, as manners dictated that the airmen ate first.  Paula, Kim and Kat had gone into the kitchen, perhaps to help serve.  He turned to Ryan.  "So it's just food and a prayer?"

"It's enough," Ryan said, hugging small David about the shoulders with one arm.  "When there's family."

Simon nodded.  Joel, who'd been standing near Carly, walked over to them with one of the airmen.  "I have someone who wants to meet you.  David Archuleta, this is Lt. Cook.  Cook, this is small David."

"I'm a big admirer of yours," Cook said, shaking his hand.  He was handsome in a genial sort of way, and wore his dress uniform with the ease of a career airman.  "I didn't realize they called you small David in real life; I thought that was just Mr. Seacrest's book."

"Well, my uncle is David."

"I'm David, too, so why don't you call me Cook and I'll call you Archuleta?  Or even better, Archie, you know, like Archie Goodwin."

"Archie, wow, okay!"  Small David smiled, blushing a little, and Simon couldn't help exchanging glances with Ryan.

"So what do you think of Thanksgiving?" Cook asked.

"Oh, I grew up in the States," small David said.  "My dad worked at the embassy, until the war started and we had to return to Spain.  The rest is in the book I guess."  He leveled his gaze.  "I'm going to sign up as soon as I'm eighteen."

Cook, to his credit, answered with no hint of condescension.  "That's what McHale said.  But you know, anyone can be an infantryman.  I wonder if we can find a better job for you."

Simon felt his body tense, almost in spite of himself, and hoped that Ryan didn't notice.

"We have some time these days," Cook went on.  "If you want, we can arrange to take you up and see if you'd like to fly.  We could always use more pilots."

"Really?" small David asked, beaming.  "Gosh, that would be super!"

"That is, if it's okay with Mr. Seacrest," Cook added.

"Please, it's Ryan, and of course it's okay," he answered.

"Terrific," Cook said, patting small David on the shoulder and pulling him slightly aside to discuss specifics. 

Simon looked up and saw Carly across the room, and watched as Sgt. Overmyer approached her.  Carly tossed her head, Overmyer smiled, and they turned to each other.  "Careful, Carly," Simon muttered.

"What?" Ryan asked, and then looked across the room.  "Ah.  Well, they're girls, and most people don't have eyes."

"You never know," Simon said.  "We're not in the military."

"True."

Simon saw Richardson and Lewis emerge from the kitchen, plates laden, and had An Idea. "Pilot-Officer Richardson?"

"Yes, sir?" he asked, approaching them with Lewis in tow.

"There's a sort of little shed out in the back garden, through the kitchen," Simon said in a low voice, thankful for the general din of the room.  "Why don't you and Lewis meet Ryan and me there, say when the pie and coffee is going around?  I have a question for you."

Richardson shrugged.  "All right," he said, but his buddy, Lewis, was scowling slightly as they walked away.

* * *

The radio station folks all came in together, Miss Hennessey with them, pretty in a dark green dress.  The gown she'd worn to the Pyramid had shown off her luscious curves to great effect, and now that Amanda knew to look she could just see them under the severe cut of the dress.  Pity, that dress.

Amanda walked over to where she stood, a little apart from Miss DePandi and her gentleman friend.  "Hello Miss Hennessey," she said.  "I'm glad to see you here."

She turned to Amanda, her hair swinging, and smiled.  "Hello Sgt. Overmeyer."

"That's a very pretty dress—"

"Why, thank you."

"—but I admit I prefer your gown of the other night."

Her cheeks grew rosier, and she laughed.  "I don't have many dresses like that."

"Why ever not?"

She bobbed her head slightly.  "I want people to listen, not just look."

Amanda smiled.  "I know I can listen and look at the same time.  For instance, you know a whole lot about me but I don't know a thing about you."

She shrugged.  "I went to university in Dublin, worked in radio there for a year before coming to London for a better opportunity.  I began as an engineer and writer, but then I started working with Simon—Mr. Cowell—and he's given me more responsibility.  I have a bijou flat on a quiet little square.  What else is there to know?"

Amanda bit her tongue, as the remark at the tip of it was inappropriate for mixed company.  Instead she asked, "Why radio?  And why not be a host like Ryan or Mr. Cowell?"

She made a face.  "No one wants to hear a woman speak that they can't see," she replied.  "Silent films yes, radio very much no.  But it's still exciting, putting these shows together, and when it's live you have only one chance.  As for engineering, I like knowing how things work.  I'm sure you understand _that_, Sgt. Overmeyer."

Amanda's eyes lit up.  "I do!  Gee, reckon I shoulda showed you the insides of one of those fighters, that day you were at the base.  Maybe next time?"

"I look forward to it."

"And please, call me Amanda."

"My name is Carly," she said.

"Carly," Amanda repeated, rolling the name around in her mouth, liking how it made her tongue move.  "Well, Carly, I know _I'd_ like to hear your voice on the radio.  Then if I can't see you at least I can hear you."  She smiled.

"Well!" Carly said.

_And touch you and smell you and taste you_ Amanda thought.  Aloud she said, "Have you ever been to an American Thanksgiving before, Carly?"

"I haven't, but it smells lovely."

"Well, allow me to be your guide?"

"I'd like that very much," Carly replied.

* * *

After everyone had been served, the pies sliced and the coffee set out, Mandisa and Paula shooed Kim out of the dining room, telling her to mingle.  She looked around and saw Joel McHale talking to Lt. Cook and Capt. Johns, Daughtry making Kat giggle and blush on the couch, and chorus girls everywhere flirting outrageously.  The band seemed to have got over the sulkiness of the other evening, mostly, Kim thought, because the pilots had siphoned off the white girls who didn't mess with the band anyway, so there was little direct competition.  Some of them were talking to the smaller colored pilot, Rogers, and the mechanic Grigsby, who seemed of a type with the boys in the band now that she saw them together.  Carly was deep in conversation with Overmyer, whom Kim still hadn't really spoken with though she was eager to, but when Paula wanted her to mingle it probably didn't mean to talk to the ladies.  She saw some of the other pilots, including Robinson, standing in one corner, not near any girls at all, so she headed in their direction.

"Miss Locke," Lewis said, "that meal was really amazing."

"Thank you," she replied, "but Mrs. Studdard deserves the credit."

"Now you can't tell me," Richardson said, "that you didn't sneak one or two of your mama's recipes in there."

She laughed.  "Well, maybe the lima beans."

"I can honestly say that I've never liked lima beans before now," Lewis said.

"Any of the pie?" Richardson asked, taking a bite from the piece on his plate.

"The pumpkin and the custard, and the chess pie" she replied.

"Well _I_ can honestly say that this is the best custard pie I've had," Robinson said.

"Thank you!  I wondered if it wasn't too old-fashioned now."

"I like old-fashioned things," Robinson said.  "Some of them, anyway."

He turned to put his plate on the little table next to him, and she saw a paperback book sticking out of his pocket.  "What are you reading?" she asked.

"Oh," he said, pulling it out.  "_The Grapes of Wrath_.  Have you read it?"

She nodded.  "Very powerful."

Robinson cocked his head.  "And the ending?"

"So you've finished it?"

"Yes—I only brought a few books with me, so I'm reading them again."

"I thought it was beautiful."

"Lotta folks found it hard to take."

"A lot of folks are blind," Kim said.  "But after all that suffering, all those people dying, that one moment of hope—well, I'll admit it, I cried."

"So did I," Robinson said, looking her level in the eye.  He was silent for a moment, and then went on.  "What are you reading now?"

"I just finished _Gone With the Wind_.  Had to see what the fuss was about."

"And?"

"Well, would you like to borrow it and read it for yourself?  It's just up in my room."

"You know, I would appreciate that, Miss Locke, if you're sure it's no trouble."

"Not at all. I'll run and get it right now."

It only took her a moment, but when she returned Robinson was alone, staring out the window as he sipped his coffee.  He smiled as he saw her and said, "I think we scared them away with our book talk."

"And Richardson a Harvard man?"

"Gentlemen's C's," Robinson said.  "I bet you made A's, wanting to be a lawyer and all."

"Well, mostly," Kim said, casting her eyes down.  She could feel herself flushing. 

"I was a grind, too," he replied.  "Engineering.  Couldn't get enough of it.  Built my own plane eventually."

She looked back up at him.  "Why am I not surprised?"

"So," he said, taking the book from her, "tell me what else you're reading."

* * *

The shed had the usual tools in the corner, and odd bits of wood, but also two benches that Ryan wiped off with a pilfered kitchen towel before sitting down.  He held a plate with slices of the apple, mincemeat and chess pies and Simon had their tea and forks and they ate, companionably, waiting for the other two men.  The two of them had headed out quickly, to be sure, but they had finished the pie and were just lighting up after-dinner cigarettes when Lewis poked his head in the door.

"Please," Simon said, pointing to the other bench.  "Sit down."

"What's this about?" Lewis asked.

"I'm going to cut to the chase here," Simon said.  "We're aware of your ah, situation—"

"Situation?" Lewis asked, a bit wide-eyed. "What—ah, what do you mean?"

Simon pointed at the two of them, wagging his finger back and forth. "The two of you, together. But that's—"

The pilots started talking over each other then:

"You have no proof of—what a horrible accusation!" Lewis shouted.

Richardson was quieter: "If there's anything we can offer—my family has money, you can't—"

Ryan held up a hand. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. I'm sorry Simon alarmed you; he gets impatient. We aren't going to tell anyone."

Richardson frowned. "How do we know that?"

"Well," Ryan replied, "we're in the same boat."

The two men looked at Ryan and Simon, and then at each other. "I see," Lewis said, though he still sounded suspicious.

"We're certainly in no position to expose you in any way, I assure you," Simon said.

"Then what is this about?" Richardson asked. "Because you're handsome and all, but we're—"

Ryan's eyes flew open. "_No_. No-no-no-no-no, nothing like that."

"We want to talk to you about Sgt. Overmyer and Miss Hennessey," Simon explained.  "Neither of them are being perhaps as _discreet_ as they might be."

Richardson's shoulders, which had been hunched with tension, slumped. "Oh god, Amanda," he said, putting his head in his hands, and Simon had a sense from his reaction that this was nothing new.

"Hold on," Ryan said, "it's not _that_ bad yet. We just need to keep it from going further."

"It seems to me," Simon said, "that what they need is a place to be able to court more openly than they can at these sort of gatherings, or even at the Pyramid Club."

"And you know a place like that?" Lewis asked.

"I do."

"And how often is it raided?"

Simon smiled.  "Never when I haven't been warned," he replied. "I wouldn't suggest anything that wasn't quite safe, of course, given that you're in the service."

"All right, what _is_ your suggestion?" Richardson asked.

"New Year's, perhaps?  Certainly the ladies can have dinner, or better yet tea, with no one the wiser—Carly knows of those places.  But I think a nice evening party is called for.  I know Paula wants to invite all you men to the Pyramid Club again, but I'm sure you can beg off."

"We can't wear our uniforms—" Lewis began.

"You can change in the city.  Suits can be provided if necessary."

"No," Richardson said.  "We can just bring them back from the house after Christmas, whenever we're there."

"Ah, that's right," Simon said.  "I'd forgot.  Ancestral home for the hols, then?"

"If leave permits," Richardson said.

"I'm sure his grace looks forward to seeing you all," Simon said.

Ryan looked at his watch. "You should go before you're missed," he said. 

They rose, and Lewis asked, "If you don't mind, how did you know?"

"Well, Ryan's engineer has ESP when it comes to this sort of thing," Simon said.  "And also, Lewis, one musn't overplay to the point of vulgarity."

"Really, we have special knowledge, and we were looking for it at the right time," Ryan added.

"All right," Lewis said, but he didn't sound entirely comfortable. 

"We'll let you know about our leave," Richardson said, and then they were gone.

Ryan was shaking his head.  "What?" Simon asked.

"What you won't do for that girl.  She has you wrapped around her finger."

"Perhaps," Simon said, grinning. "She _is_ the woman in my life.  Has been for a while now."

"I see."

"Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

"Much as it would amuse me, no."

Ryan leaned over and gave Simon a quick kiss, then whispered, "I should go back inside."

Simon nodded.  "Coming over tonight?"

"Of course," he said, smiling as he walked out of the shed, cup and plate in hand.

Simon sipped the last bit of his tea, cold now, and spent another cigarette wondering about Ryan before deciding that their status was entirely too complicated to contemplate while sitting on a hard bench in a chilly back garden shed.  He'd think about it later.

Or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bringing Up Baby_ (dir. Howard Hawks, 1938) is a romantic comedy starring Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant.
>
>> _"My folks moved up [to New Jersey] in 1917; I hadn't started school yet. Enough folks had come to Camden that they had call for a colored doctor, and he wanted to get us away from, well, he just called it 'the atmosphere.'"_
> 
> Black folks didn't really start moving up to the north in large numbers until the early 20th century. They didn't have the money, some southern landowners used force to keep their labor in town, and there weren't many jobs available to them even in the north, as they were kept out of most union and factory jobs. But WWI interrupted the flow of immigrants from Europe, and that plus the draft created a labor shortage that blacks could fill. 1.5 million blacks migrated from the south to the north and west between 1910-1940 in the first Great Migration.
>
>> _Simon was, in general, dubious about American holidays that he considered "made up" like Mother's Day, or Thanksgiving._
> 
> Presidents since Washington proclaimed national days of thanksgiving here and there, but it didn't become a national holiday until Lincoln made it so in 1863, in the middle of the Civil War. Originally the last Thursday of November, in 1939 FDR moved it to the fourth Thursday in order to extend the holiday shopping season and help out retailers during the Depression. WWII also standardized the turkey as the center of the meal, as many servicemen were served turkey in Army mess halls. Mandisa might have had a ham if not for Paula, but as Ryan had lived in the north he would have sent a turkey.
>
>> _"Rabbi Yamin was telling us all about the kindertransport. They're still bringing little Jewish children out of the Netherlands and Belgium."_
> 
> British Jewish leaders started pulling Jewish children out of Germany after Kristallnacht, 15 November 1938. They obtained permission from the government to bring in unaccompanied minors, and brought them by train from Germany to the Netherlands, and then by ship to England, where they were put into foster families. Even after war was declared against Germany on 1 September 1939, they continued to bring children out of the Netherlands, France and Belgium. The final transport was just before the Dutch army surrendered in 14 May 1940. Because of German legal restrictions against Jews at the time, the actual transport in Germany was done by Quakers, who often accompanied the children all the way to their ship to England. Elliott would have been working with the camps the children stayed at while awaiting a foster home. 


	6. Stella Dallas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!

_26 November 1939_

[Lush Life](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Lush_Life/4125443)

Kimberley Locke held her breath.  She was back in the BBC studio singing "Lush Life" with Randy's new arrangement.  No other singers this time, just her, Randy, Paula, Carly, and Simon Cowell, who was as usual completely unreadable. "Lush Life" was a particular favorite of hers, even though it was tricky, because it showed off her timing. But she'd listened to Simon's show enough to know what sorts of songs he liked, and a lyric that included the word "distingue" was probably not it.

"Very nice arrangement, Randy," he said at last, and Randy nodded.  He turned to Carly.  "I think we should try another take, and put it on the show next week."

Kim exhaled, relieved.

"But I don't think we've found _the_ song yet," he continued.  "She could do something really show stopping.  She has it in her."

There was a pause, and then Paula said, "Was that a compliment?"

"Yes," Simon answered.

"Because I couldn't tell."

Kim started laughing.  "I'll take it, Mr. Cowell.  Would you like me to change anything?"

"Just sing it as you would want to, Kim."

She nodded.  She had to admit, for that first take she'd been nervous and a bit tight, which was more like Kat than like her.  She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded at Randy, and sang it again—looser, letting the arrangement carry her like a boat down the stream of the song and it flowed, relaxed and easy.

"Well," Mr. Cowell said when she finished, "think we'll use that second take."

* * *

_10 December 1939_

Amanda double-checked the address Carly had sent her, but this was right—a tiny little shop along a side street with a sign that just said, "Tea."  She opened the door and peered inside.  Sure enough, the small room was full of tables of ladies sat drinking tea and eating tiny pastries.

Carly was sitting at a table for two near the back, nose in a book.  Amanda thought she must have come from work, but she wasn't wearing one of those severe suits; instead, she had a rather pretty dress, a green and white print, with an adorable little hat. "Hello," Amanda said.

She looked up, and smiled.  "Hello," she said.  "I'm so glad you found it."

"Do only ladies go out for tea," Amanda asked, "or is this a lady's special shop?"

"If you're asking if it's a shop for _special ladies_, only somewhat.  I'm sure it's safe to be here in your uniform."  A waitress approached the table with a large pot of tea.  "I hope you don't mind, but I already put in our order."

"No, I don't mind," Amanda said.  She leaned in and muttered, "So, did you get a lecture, too?"

Carly shrugged.  "Simon is very protective of his friends. He likes taking care of people. I think that's how he expresses his paternal instinct, not having children of his own. Don't be surprised if he pulls you and your friends under his wing, too."

"Really? He doesn't seem the type."

"He keeps that side carefully hidden." She smiled. "So you were lectured? By whom?"

"Chris, and it was the same lecture he's been giving me since we were kids." Amanda rolled her eyes. "But I'm not here to talk about them."

"No?" Carly asked.

Amanda looked up to see the waitress coming with a tray of pastries and tiny sandwiches.  "I want you to talk about you."

"Oh," Carly said, picking up a sandwich. "Well, I grew up in the countryside.  My people are farmers, and I spent a lot of time on horseback—"

"I did too!" Amanda said.  "Virginia, that's horse country.  I rode all my life."

"Yes, I'd noticed your posture."  She smiled.  "There were troubles in Ireland when I was young, but by the time I went to university they were ending.  I took my degree and came to London, which was not popular with my parents."

"Don't like the English, do they?"

"Not much, no. Sometimes I don't, either, though I like my job and Simon's all right.  But I would like to get to America, especially now that I've heard Joel and Ryan talk about the reporting there."  Then she looked up and her body stiffened slightly.

Amanda followed her eyes to the door, where a slim woman in a trouser suit and a hat had just come in.  She saw Carly, and walked over to their table.

"Hello, Sam," Carly said, and the other woman leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks.  "How have you been?"

"Oh, about the same.  And you?  You look swell."

"Thank you, I'm quite well."  She gestured toward Amanda.  "Sam, this is my friend Amanda; Amanda, this is Sam."

Amanda stood up and shook Sam's hand firmly.  "Good to meet you."

"Oh, an American," Sam said, and grinned.  "And in the service, no less."

"Yes," Amanda said in her haughtiest drawl.  "RAF, actually."

"Sam has a late night show on the BBC," Carly said, "and she throws record parties."

"Do you like hot jazz, Amanda?" Sam asked.

"Very much," she replied.

"Then you should bring her to a party, Carly," Sam said.

"Sure," Carly said, noncommittally.

Sam nodded.  "Well, my table awaits.  Ah, and there's my own American girl now."  Amanda turned and saw girl standing in the door—a slender redhead who looked familiar.  "Nice to meet you, Amanda, and good to see you again, Carly."  She walked away.

Amanda sat down.  "So, Carly …"

"Yes." 

"Yes?"

Carly looked up, her expression blank.  "Yes, I used to see Sam, and now I don't."

Amanda watched as Sam pulled out the chair for her friend.  "She wears that suit well—"

"Oh?"

Amanda turned back to Carly.  "But I'd wear it better."

Carly raised one eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Who's the girl?"

Carly shrugged.  "Some actress, I think?"

"Oh, of course!  She was a child star; she was in those early talkies, you know, before Shirley Temple.  Huh, how interesting."  She took a sip of tea, and looked around.  "So, you're really in with the gang here, aren't you?"

Carly smiled a little.  "Do you mean the 'Sapphic' gang?  I have some friends, yes.  And you?  Back in America, I mean."

Amanda shook her head.  "Barnstorming, we were going from town to town," she replied.  "So not since college, really."

"How did you get started? I don't think Giuliana asked you that." 

"Oh, after college Chris and I were back in Virginia, not doing much of anything, waiting for something to happen I guess, and he saw an ad for pilots who owned their own planes.  So we went down to Charlotte, and that started us off.  That was back in '35."

"Your parents must have been pleased."

"Yeah, we actually kinda snuck out and sent a letter back.  Didn't go over well.  I think they were hoping we'd eloped.  Then when the war started, a buddy of Chris's said that Canada was looking for pilots, and here we are."

"Well, I'm glad about that."

"Say," Amanda said, looking down, "you ate all the cucumber sandwiches."

"Sorry," Carly replied.  "There's still ham."

"The ham in England is _not_ ham."

"That's what Kim said, too."

"Kim?" Amanda asked.  "Should I be worried?"

"What?  No!  No, Kimberley, the singer at the Pyramid Club?"

"Oh, right, she's seeing Robinson."

"I don't think it's romantic, actually," Carly said.

"I dunno; he's always there on his free nights."

"Well, If he intends to court her, he should _court_ her. 

"And openly," Amanda said. "We have an excuse; he doesn't."

"I'm glad you agree," Carly said, leaning forward.  "Because I intend to court you."

Amanda blinked.  She couldn't remember ever hearing those words from the kind of girl she was usually attracted to; she was normally the one doing the courting.  She tried to think of a snappy comeback, but ultimately fell back on old training.  "Well," she said, "I do declare!"

* * *

_24 December 1939_

Giuliana DePandi was really a darling girl, Simon thought, and he'd be sorry to lose her whenever she finally married her American bloke and moved to the States.  She, along with her father and Carly, was preparing a traditional Italian feast for Christmas Eve for a rather large crowd—Bill, Simon, Ryan, Joel, small David, and his school chum Diana DeGarmo.  Simon had offered his own flat but Giuliana insisted they'd all fit around the table, so he'd settled for sending over a good quantity of Italian wine, a glass of which was thrust into his hand by Sig. DePandi as soon as he'd shed his hat and coat. 

"Happy Christmas, Sig. Cowell!" he said, voice booming.  Then he leaned in and whispered, "I have finished that special order for you."  Sig. DePandi, upon arriving in England, had returned to tailoring, the trade he'd left behind when he began to pursue politics in Italy.  With the troubles in Europe, those English men who wanted something other than stuffy traditional tailoring had flocked to his small shop just off Savile Row, and he'd hired two assistants to keep up with the demand.

"Shh," Simon said, putting a finger to his lips.  "Carly isn't to know, but remind me to take it home with me, and thank you."

"Isn't the first time I've made one, to be honest," he replied.  "But I'm a tailor, not a priest.  And it's an interesting challenge, with the girl not there.  Tell her to please come in for a better fitting as soon as she might."

"Of course," Simon replied.  "And thank you so much for hosting us all tonight."

"No, please," he said, leading Simon into the sitting room.  "We're all family.  In fact, we've found that Sig.na DeGarmo is the granddaughter of an old friend of mine from Parliament.  It's a small world these days, Sig. Cowell."

At the moment Sig.na DeGarmo was sitting at the piano with small David, humming along with something he was playing.  She was a cute little thing, hourglass shape like a stereotypical Italian lady, round cheeked with dark blond hair.  She stood as small David introduced her and was even smaller than he was, and she was wearing heels.  "You two will be singing for us later, I hope?" Simon asked.

Small David turned to Diana and smiled, but she was blushing.  "I'm such a fan of yours, sir," she said.  "I'm not sure I would meet your high standards."

"Nonsense," Simon replied.  "This is a holiday when we should all be singing, and you're not asking people to pay to hear you.  Entirely different rules apply."

"See?" small David said.  "He's really not that frightening!"

Diana giggled.  "Then yes, if David would like, we'll sing."

"I would like," small David replied.

Simon looked over their heads at Ryan, smiling at them from the couch, and winked.

After dinner—and Simon didn't think he'd ever had quite so many different sorts of fish dishes at one sitting—there were lovely delicate pastries, dried fruit and nuts, and the liqueurs came out, limoncello and nocino, and finally the talk of politics that Simon anticipated, with so many anti-fascists around the table.  Sig. DePandi, in particular, was furious that nothing had happened in response to either Poland or Finland.

"So these countries, these Germans and Russians, they just run over the continent," he said, "and we respond with propaganda falling from the sky?  What is this?"

"Confetti war," Bill said, shaking his head.

"Whose minds could they be changing?  The Germans who might have stood up to Hitler have lost and left, as we have done.  And the French with their magical line!"

"Maginot, papa," Giuliana said.

"I mean magical, Giuliana," he replied, "if they think a man sitting on a stool behind some concrete can push back a German tank.  And what is to say they won't go through Belgium as they did before?  Then where is your line?"

"I say we just get going," Bill said, "and I mean us Americans as well.  What's the wait for?"

"I agree," Ryan said.  "It's going to happen.  The Germans must be stopped."

"That's what they said last time," Simon replied.  "War to end war.  Didn't stick.  Are we supposed to fight Jerry every twenty-five years?  Worse than the French."

"So instead you intend to stand by as Hitler takes whatever he wants?" Ryan asked.

"And England has really been any different?" Simon asked, suddenly very aware that he was the only Englishman at the table.  "Half the reason we get into these messes is the Empire and I'm not sure what good it's done.  As Carly knows only too well."

"We have a new constitution now," Carly said, and Joel clicked glasses with her.  "But I don't think Ireland will be joining this war.  We won't fight alongside the English, and we can't have more Irish fighting for the fascists, like in Spain.  Sorry," she said, looking at small David, who waved his hand.

"Plus there's the Japanese doing as they please in China," Simon went on, "and the Germans making trouble in Argentina of all places.  The Great War was called a 'world war' but this one really will be one.  Roosevelt is right to wait.  I'm in no hurry, is the point."

"I am," small David said.  "As soon as I'm eighteen, I'm joining up."

"You know," Simon said, "when we were all joining up, we were in a hurry, too.  Get our licks in before the war ended and all that.  But the war went on for almost five years.  I'm very sure there will still be fascists to fight in a year.  Gives us more time to get ready."

"We're getting there," Bill said.  "And Cash-and-Carry is getting factories retooled now and creating a lot of jobs, which are needed, let me tell you."

"But you agree there's something worth getting ready for?" Ryan asked Simon.

"There is _now_. But maybe if you Yanks had joined the League there wouldn't be, and the League might have been able to stand up to all of them in Spain."

"That's something we agree on," Ryan said.

Giuliana held up her hand. "Enough! It's Christmas." She glanced at the clock and said, "I think it's time for some music, before we head to Mass."  She stood and started to clear plates and Ryan jumped up to help.

"We have it," Carly said.

"No, no," Ryan said.  "Giuliana hasn't let me help at all yet.  Even at a holiday, Simon would rather listen to _you_ sing, Carly, than hear my warbling."  He winked at Simon, who smiled back at him.

Ryan did help clear, but Giuliana insisted they leave the cleaning, and they all gathered around the piano singing holiday songs from six different countries.  Simon sometimes made fun of it, but this was precisely the time and place for this sort of family music making, and he was secretly rather sentimental about it. Besides, as Ryan said, he'd always liked Carly's voice. Diana and small David had surprisingly strong, clear voices; if there weren't a war to worry about Simon might have marketed them himself, but one look at small David and you knew he was bound for greater things.

The snow was falling as they left.  All of the others headed to midnight Mass, leaving Simon and Ryan to wander back to Simon's flat through the crystalline air. 

"So, when do we need to leave for your mother's house?" Ryan asked.

"Joel and Carly are taking the 10 o'clock train," Simon said, "so we'll leave around eleven so we can pick them up on the other end."

"You really drive that fast?"

"Why do you think Carly won't ride in the car?"

"So, your mother," Ryan began.

"I'm sure she'll like you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Not really.  Mamas do, as a rule.  But—does she _know_?"

"About us?"

"Well, about you."

"Oh.  Well, it's likely.  A few years after my divorce I stopped dating girls, and she stopped asking me about grandchildren."

"That's when you started dating boys?"

Simon smirked.  "I've no doubt that either you or Joel have managed to get the entire story from Carly.  You're taking a chance, aren't you, dating, with the consequences and all.  And I was just coming into this radio thing and you know—there just isn't time."

"So I'm convenient," Ryan said.

"Don't tease."

"I just—you're taking me to meet your mother.  I know you think I'm a romantic, but—"

"Not about me.  About war.  About this, you're remarkably sensible and hard-headed."

"Oh.  So—"

"So let's see, shall we?  I've no desire to be with anyone else.  Do you?"

"No," Ryan replied, firmly. 

They walked on silently, the snow crunching under their feet, bodies close enough to brush occasionally.

"New Year's should be fun," Ryan said, his head tipped toward the garment bag Simon carried.

"Should be," he replied.  "Is Joel—"

"He's going to the Pyramid.  I'm sure he'd like to spend an evening apart.  And he's become friendly with some of the airmen.  S'good for him to see more fellows who actually follow sports."

Simon shook his head.  "God bless Joel."

"And how," Ryan replied.

In the entrance hall of Simon's block of flats, they shook the snow off their overcoats and hats before taking the lift upstairs. 

Once inside, Ryan said, "So, you're my boyfriend."

Simon turned to him.  "Do you think that word suits me?"

Ryan laughed.  "My fella?  My beau?"

"I'll accept that," Simon said. "Happy birthday, darling."

"Aww, you remembered. Thank you."

"How does it feel to be the ripe old age of twenty-eight?"

"Pretty damn good, actually," Ryan replied, and kissed him.

* * *

_29 December 1939_

Amanda, Blake and Chris changed trains at Paddington without much incident—even a lady in uniform wasn't an unusual sight these days.  Amanda would bet money that his grace, Chris's grandfather, had pulled some strings, but all the Canadians had got four days furlough, from the 29th through the new year, as they'd covered for the Brits to go home for Christmas.  So here they were, off to Sussex.  Amanda had been asked specially—apparently this end of the family hadn't given up on the match—but Chris had invited Blake himself.  Some time after they settled into the compartment Chris excused himself, and Blake immediately turned to Amanda.

"You've been there before, right? To Burnshaw?"

"A few times, yes."

Blake nodded, and stared at the floor. "Is it like the books?"

"Which books?"

"I don't know—like, Lord Peter?"

"Oh!  Well, the house is sort of like that, servants and terraces and tenants."

"Big house?"

"Yeah.  Bigger than our houses in Virginia.  I don't think it's really a house; it's a park or something."

"I grew up in an apartment above a general store in Seattle.  Anything more than four rooms counts as large in my book."

"Why aren't you talking to Chris about this?" Amanda asked, cocking her head.

Blake shrugged. "You know how he gets."

There was just the hint of a blush on Blake's cheeks, something Amanda never thought she'd see, so she resolved to be as matter-of-fact as possible to diffuse his embarrassment. "Burnshaw has three wings and about twenty bedrooms—there were more, but they had to convert some when they put in plumbing.  And all the usual rooms on the ground floor, you know, billiards and library and sitting rooms and such."

"Wow. Well, thanks.  I'd rather say wow to just you than in front of all of them."

"You'll be fine, Blake.  The Duke and Duchess aren't half as snobby as most of the folks in Richmond. Besides, you have very good manners when you want to."

"Thanks.  So do you."

"I was trained early."

"Trained for what?" Chris asked as he returned to the compartment, pushing the door shut behind him.

"Trained to be your blushing bride," Amanda said, cozying up to him.  "Stand by your side as you claim your birthright."

Chris rolled his eyes.  "Sprucewood has been matrilineal for the last five generations, and my sister can have it.  'Croppers are mostly gone now, anyways."

"Times is changin'" Amanda said, exaggerating her drawl.

"Now you sound like Big Mama," Chris replied.  "But I'm serious.  Robinson, Rogers, even your pal Grigsby—our Negroes aren't like that."

"Maybe," Blake said softly, "they are, but they're not like that around you, since you live in the big house and all?"

Chris was quiet, looking at Blake, and then said, "Yeah, maybe.  All the more reason not to live in the big house, isn't it?"

"Kinda makes me sad to think about it," Amanda said.

"What, that 'times is changin''?" Chris asked.

"No, that they have to."  She looked out the window.  "We're here." 

Chris and Blake pulled the three satchels from above the seats, while Amanda opened the outer compartment door and caught the eye of the footman who'd been sent down to pick them up. As they walked to the waiting car, Blake looked around the small village train station, then whispered to Amanda, "It _is_ just like the movies."

Amanda smiled and patted him on the back. "Yeah, it kinda is," she replied.

* * *

_31 December 1939_

Kim adjusted her new dress and double-checked the mirror.  Randy had put "Lush Life" into the show just before Christmas, and it had gone over well enough that Jen had made a cutting little remark.  Kat hadn't noticed, but she had two sources of distraction:  Pilot-Officer Daughtry, and those Jewish refugee children.  Kim and Robinson had gone on a few double dates with them since Thanksgiving—well, not really double dates since she and Robinson weren't actually dating.  Even if she did have her Thanksgiving flower pressing in the large dictionary in her bedroom, it was just a sweet little black-eyed susan, a friendship flower; he'd mentioned his mother, after all.  And Daughtry had given Kat a hothouse rose.

But she looked forward to their conversations and they were trading book recommendations like mad.   Kim had finished a _Mein Kampf_ translation and a Hemingway novel, and he'd dropped her a post card when he'd finished _Gone With the Wind_ that said:    


>   
> _Mitchell novel even worse than expected.  Butler well rid of Scarlett.  Wish Prissy had been smart enough to run away.  Glad Atlanta burned down.  —A.R._

She kept the postcards in a small box with her other letters; six had arrived so far.

And now she was wearing a sparkling aquamarine dress she'd packed but kept back, just in case, but she wasn't sure why this was the occasion.  She'd made all kinds of fool of herself over Morehouse boys in her youth.  But it was New Year's Eve and she could just want to look pretty for her own sake.  Daughtry and Robinson wanted to take them to an early pre-show dinner.  Their Lt. Cook was coming, too, with Kelly, the chorus girl who was also Kat's understudy.

"Oh, Kimberley, you look lovely," Kat said. 

"So do you," Kim replied, and she did, sultry in a clinging blood-red dress with a long slit, her hair long and loose about her shoulders.  "Is Kelly ready?"

"Right here," said Kelly.  Kelly wasn't much on glamour, and looked just a little uncomfortable in her pretty green dress. 

"Honey," Kim said, walking over to her, "you gotta stand up straight in a dress like that."  She arranged Kelly's hair so it draped over one shoulder.  "If you want to stand out in front of the band you have to start looking the part.  There's that's better.  See?" she asked, turning Kelly to face the mirror.

"Never thought bein' a tomboy would get in the way of singin'," Kelly said.

"Come on now," Kim said.  She went down first; after all, a friendly dinner has no need of dramatic descents down the staircase.  Robinson gave her both compliments and a little bouquet of dahlias they found a vase for and put on the sideboard.  Cook greeted Kelly with a peck on the cheek.  Kim liked Cook, though she hadn't seen that much of him.  He was funny in an impish sort of way, more subversive than she would have expected from a regular Air Force man. Kat made her grand entrance to great effect and a rather large bouquet that was given pride of place on the piano.  Kim preferred her flowers, as she'd mentioned liking that variety to Robinson, and was pleased he'd remembered.  She'd move them up to her nightstand later.

Their dinner was at a little out of the way place, a recommendation Cook had got from Giuliana, Simon's secretary, by way of Joel McHale.  Kim hadn't had spaghetti since New York, hadn't realized how much she missed breaded chicken covered with tomato sauce and cheese, or platters of roasted vegetables and salami.  Usually Daughtry and Kat chatted about either Kat's singing or Daughtry's flying while she and Robinson discussed books and politics, but Cook and Kelly made it more of a party—though there was also a good deal of Chianti.  Cook did spot-on impressions of everyone, including Ryan Seacrest, and he and Kelly egged each other on, getting sillier as the night went on. Kim thought her sides would ache from laughing, and she'd never heard so many jokes from Robinson, either—often at his own expense, though sometimes Cook's—and it was obvious the respect all three men had for each other's flying.

When the men dropped them off at the Pyramid club, Robinson took her aside.  "Miss Locke, I just wanted to make sure that I'll see you at midnight?"

"Of course," she replied, smiling.

"Good," he said, touching his hat before walking away.

Well, at least he didn't say he'd kiss her, she thought as she went to her dressing table.

* * *

Amanda thought Duke and Duchess were very kind, but they were relics of a previous time. She'd been to Burnshaw half a dozen times, as the Richardsons liked having her along because she made Chris a bit livelier. Her own mother had encouraged this: at worst, it would solidify a match with Chris, at best, put her in the path of eligible English men, perhaps one with a title. So the rituals of the country estate, with the constant clothing changes and the silly evening parties and afternoons of shooting or whathaveyou, were familiar to her. Having to be a proper lady was like falling back into bad old habits; there was a reason she'd left Virginia, and it wasn't just to chase after girls. Luckily many of Chris's younger relatives were also there, and that took some of the pressure off. Besides, watching Blake try to interact with the servants was hysterical enough for anything; she wondered what he'd make of the life she and Chris had left behind in Virginia.

Now they were back in London, in a cab taking them from the train station to an unfamiliar address the boys refused to explain. It wasn't like Chris to be mysterious.  He'd always been rotten at keeping secrets from Amanda—from anyone and everyone else, but never from her.  But he and Blake were being vague about their New Year's plan, only saying that she'd like it, and not to worry that they'd miss Carly by not going to the party at the Pyramid Club.  She'd only seen Carly the one time since Thanksgiving, after Chris and Blake had lectured her about discretion.  She'd wanted to stick her tongue out at them, but she _was_ in the Army now, as the man said.

The cab pulled up to an elegant apartment building, and Blake grabbed satchels and garment bags while Chris took care of the fare.  An elevator took them up three flights, then one more because of that confusing ground floor business.  They rang the bell, and Amanda wondered about attending some private party in uniform—and it was still so early!

The door opened and you could have scraped her off the floor when Simon Cowell appeared, dressed in a tuxedo and smiling around a cigarette.  "Come in, come in!" he said, escorting them into a tasteful Art Deco apartment, the kind of place she'd always imagined Hercule Poirot living in, geometric patterns and lacquered side tables and objects d'art arranged just so. "I see you gentlemen have your formal kits with you.  The guest room is just along here"—he took them down a hallway—"and at the end is the lavatory.  Now, Sgt. Overmyer, we'll have to use given names tonight, sorry for the familiarity."

"I'm Amanda."

"Right, Amanda.  I'm Simon.  I'm sure you have a perfectly lovely frock, Amanda, but Chris thought you might rather wear this."  He opened the door to what must be his own bedroom, and hanging in front of the wardrobe was a tuxedo.

She felt Chris come up behind her.  "Merry Christmas."

"That's—that's for me?"

"Hope it fits.  I think you've lost a little weight since we joined up."

She walked over to it slowly.  She'd owned a suit before, and of course a lot of slacks, but never a formal tuxedo like this:  wool, with satin on the lapels, and superbly cut, she could tell.  Her very own bespoke suit.  "It's beautiful," she said, and it was—more than any dress could ever be.  "But I don't have—"

"There are shoes here," Simon said, "and in this box men's hose and garters and shorts, and here is the ah, you know," and he gestured vaguely at his own chest.

She smiled at Simon, then turned to hug Chris.  "Thank you."

"Hey, nothing's too good for my best girl," he said.

"I hate to break up this charming scene," Simon said, "but we need to get you dressed.  We have a reservation.  Amanda, you're in here; shout if you need anything."

But she didn't.  The linen binding, for her, was less for the visual—her breasts weren't _that_ big—than the feeling.  Boxer shorts, undershirt, garters, socks, trousers with their hidden tabs as they wouldn't be belted.  Studs in a boiled-front shirt with detached collar.  Tie the tie, cummerbund, and slip into the jacket—almost like the checklists on the airfield.  For something that hadn't been fitted, the tuxedo conformed to her shape remarkably well.  And it was nice to not have a silly little evening bag, but to have change and her wallet in her pocket, her granddaddy's pocket watch on a chain.

She emerged to much applause, and then Blake wet down her chin length hair and smoothed it back with plenty of Bryl-Cream.

"Wow, Amanda," he said.  "Even the way you walk is different."

She winked.  "Don't get a crush now.  You're dating my buddy, after all."

Simon herded them back into a cab and they were off again, to a part of town she recognized—the teashop was nearby.  Well.  Of course.

The large men at the door opened it for Simon and his party, and yes, it was a club for "their sort."  On the dance floor and at tables were men dancing with men, women with women, and men with women, and not a few of them had cross-dressed in one way or another.  As the maitre d' led them to the table, there was the very girl Amanda hoped to see, the only one she was looking for in a sea of available women.

"I'm glad you wore the blue dress again," Amanda said.

Carly smiled.  "I could tell how much you liked it," she said.

"May I have this dance?"

"Of course."

Amanda led her to the floor and swept her into her arms, lovely curves and laughing eyes and silky hair and god, that beautiful blue gown.  The band was playing a fox trot, a dance that was easier for Amanda to lead than to follow, and they glided across the floor, Carly following as well as Ginger ever did Fred.

"You look very handsome, Amanda," she said.  "Such a nice suit."

"And you like your women handsome, do you?"

"I do," she said, reaching up to stroke Carly's hair.  "I'm mad for a girl in a suit.  I like that jumpsuit of yours, too."

"Good.  I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Paula had made sure that the Pyramid Club sparkled and glittered even more than usual, with so much silver and white that the room resembled a crystal palace more than a supper club.  Mandisa, in her finest dress, helped her husband behind the bar—he'd taken her to an elegant dinner beforehand, something he'd been saving for. However, when he arrived he found that Simon Fuller, the Pyramid owner and Paula's paramour, had already taken care of their bill as a holiday present to them both.  Ruben was more than the head bartender; in a few months he'd become Fuller's right hand man, spending most afternoons in the office dealing with vendors and his evenings supervising the front of house staff from his position behind the bar.

Cook, Daughtry and Robinson, joined by Joel McHale, sat through both shows at a small table just off to the side of the stage.  The chorus girls loved McHale because he was funny and flattering but kept his distance, and therefore didn't need to be managed.  Gina and Haley in particular often buzzed around him, sitting on his lap, and Kim had her suspicions about them—they flirted with men in the audience, or with the band, or with Joel especially, but they never went further, and all admirers unwise enough to go backstage were immediately dismissed.  Kim had known girls like that in Harlem too, and felt that whatever they got up to in their room at night was their business; what she could say for them was at least they weren't stringing any men along for the presents.

The second show ended just before eleven, and the girls all ran backstage to change from their costumes into their party dresses, freshen makeup and adjust their hair.  Kim, Kat and Kelly weren't the only ones who had servicemen escorts that evening; the room was sprinkled with uniforms, British as well as Canadian.  Men from Robinson's squadron, who had become regulars at the Pyramid, rivaled McHale for the attention of the chorus girls—not far from Robinson's table were Castro, Young, Grigsby and Rogers with what could only be described as a harem, though Tamyra, in her quiet way, had established herself as the number one wife.  Paula paid particular attention to the married men, safe to flirt with in front of her beau.  Richardson, Lewis and Overmyer had stayed at Richardson's grandfather's estate for the holiday; Kim knew that Kat must really have been gone for Daughtry when she learned that Richardson was a duke's grandson and didn't even bat an eye.

Robinson met Kim halfway to the table and pulled her directly onto the dance floor.  "What's the rush?" Kim asked.

He looked down at his watch.  "We have only twenty minutes before midnight, and while I had a very nice time at dinner, I'll admit I missed talking to just you.  Out here, I have you all to myself."

"Oh!" she said. 

"And I couldn't wait to talk to you after what you said earlier."

Kim searched her memory.  "What did I say?"

"That you'd finished _The Sun Also Rises_!"

"Oh!"  A book, of course.  Only Robinson would discuss books while doing the fox trot in a supper club in London at a quarter to midnight on New Year's Eve.  "Yes, I did."

"So what did you think?"

"Well, I was surprised, but at the end I was sorry for Brett."

Robinson pulled back a bit.  "Sorry for her?  I thought you'd hate her."

"Why?  She's only using what she has to get what she wants.  Look at all these women here, doing the same thing.  Those boys, they liked Brett because she acted that way, and then they punished her for it."

"Well.  And how is that different from those women who marry 'bad boys' and want to reform them?"

The song ended and they applauded, while Kim was still thinking.

"You don't have an answer for me, do you?" he asked, grinning.  The floor was getting more crowded, as there wouldn't be more than two dances before midnight, so they were less dancing than swaying against each other, closer than they had been before.

"It is different, but I'm not sure how.  And anyway those women are misguided.  You can't reform a bad boy; he has to reform himself."

"For the love of a good woman?"

"No, that's what I mean.  He has to do it for himself."

"And when has a man ever done that?"

Kim smiled.  "I have a—"

"Book for that?" Robinson finished.  "I thought so."

"My turn.  What did you think of Huck Finn?"

"I think that I still don't like Tom Sawyer anymore than I did as a boy. Lying to Jim like that, playing games with a man's freedom.  But Huck—sometimes I feel like Huck, like the world is telling me one thing is right but my heart tells me something else.  No more Indian Territories, though."

"Garvey?"

"Naw. My parents considered it, when we were kids? But I'm an American.  I'm not going back to Africa."

"Then it'll have to be changed," she replied.

He looked down at her.  "Yeah.  I reckon it will."

The song ended, and as it was only a few minutes before midnight, they returned to the table.  Champagne was passed all around the club.  Jen was over by the band, as were some of the chorus girls.  Paula and Randy were up on the stage with Fuller.  "Say goodbye to the thirties!" Paula shouted, and started the countdown.  Kim turned to Robinson, who was smiling down at her, and felt his arm about her waist. 

"Three!  Two!  One!" 

Robinson was looking at her, and for just a split second she thought—but there, he was kissing her sweetly, chastely on the lips, his own full lips open just enough to alternate with her own.  Warm affection, and really, why would she have expected more?

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kelly offer her cheek to Cook; well, they hadn't been out many times, and Kelly was a particular sort of girl.  Daughtry and Kat were still kissing of course, and Gina and Haley were being rather silly with Joel, kissing his nose and such. 

"Welcome to the forties, Miss Locke," Robinson said.  "We'll make them better than the thirties were, won't we?"

He looked so determined, and it was a "we" she wanted to belong to very much.  "Yes," she replied, smiling.  "Let's."

* * *

Ryan thought the six of them made a splendid little party for dinner.  After the meal there was a floor show, men and women in drag, good though not the Pyramid.  It was just relaxed and easy, all of them able to display that low-level sort of physical affection strictly forbidden in other circumstances, like Simon's arm across the back of his chair, or Blake's hand on Chris's knee, or Amanda and Carly holding hands.  And the dancing!  They even all took turns with each other, and Amanda was almost as good at leading him across the floor as Simon was.  And then, at midnight, a smile and a kiss, and a great deal of cheering from the assembled.  Would that all their social encounters were so uncomplicated, so free of fear of discovery.

At 2 o'clock they finally piled into two cabs for the ride back to Ryan's for a night cap.  They were very silent indeed in the hall, so as not to wake the neighbors, though a light shone under the apartment door.  Ryan unlocked the door—

—to find Joel on the couch, kissing a man?

"Lt. Cook?" Amanda said.

It was so odd that Ryan couldn't get his mind around it.  Cook had jumped at the sound of his name and now stood a good arm's length away from Joel, who was also on his feet, and both men were breathless.  Ryan's party had barely got through the door, and only Simon had the presence of mind to close it behind them.  Richardson and Lewis looked worried, and they had every right to be; Amanda looked surprised, though perhaps she had forgotten that she was currently in male drag; Carly just looked puzzled.  Simon had his head cocked, thoughtful, and Ryan had learned that very little surprised that man, even Joel's antics.  Joel had a nervous smile and vibrated with a frenetic energy that generally meant he was going to tell Ryan something he didn't want to hear.

"This isn't what it looks like," Joel said, holding up his hands.

"It looks like you were necking with Lt. Cook on our couch," Ryan said, his voice flat.

"Okay, so it is what it looks like, but let me explain."

Out of the corner of his eye Ryan could see Simon and Chris moving chairs in from the dining room so everyone could sit down.  Ryan folded his body in the easy chair, willing himself to stay as calm as possible.

"I should go," Cook said.

"No," Ryan replied, already exhausted and they hadn't even started yet.  "Please don't."  Cook slumped back down onto the couch, but Joel remained standing.  Once everyone was situated, Ryan looked back up at Joel.  "So, explanation?

"You have to understand.  I have _needs_, Ryan.  And you've gone off with _him_," he said, pointing at Simon.

"I didn't realize you were serious about having an affair, Joel.  You say a lot of things."

"I got permission from my wife!"

"Did you get permission for _this_?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

"You did?" Cook asked.

"Of course.  I love my wife."

"Seriously?" Ryan asked.  "I didn't even know you and Cook knew each other that well."

"Because you don't pay attention to me anymore, Ryan!  We hit it off after the interview.  We talked all the way through Thanksgiving.  We've even grabbed dinner a few times."

"You make it sound like we're dating," Cook said.

"And then he got the shaft tonight from Kelly—"

"I wouldn't call it the shaft.  I got the cheek."

"Oooh, on New Year's?" Blake asked, wincing.

"That's rough, brother," Chris added.

"I know!" Cook replied.  "After I bought her dinner and everything!"

Ryan saw Amanda roll her eyes at Carly, who was shaking her head.

"And you know who I had dinner with tonight, when all of you were on dates?" Joel asked.  "Sig. DePandi.  Not that he isn't a lovely man and a wonderful tailor—Overmyer, that tuxedo is superb—but he's sixty, and all we did was talk about how much we miss our wives."

Ryan stood and put a hand on Joel's shoulder. "Joel, friend, I _am_ sorry.  I didn't realize."

Joel waved a hand.  "It's all right.  You're always like this with a new fella.  Though never this bad!"  He wagged a finger.  "And usually I get lots of juicy details so I don't care but mum's the word all of a sudden."

"Really?" Simon asked, and Ryan shuddered to think what Joel would say.

"'Neil's going to be a big star and he fucked me over the kitchen table yesterday.'  'Raphael's going to win the US Open and he gave me the orgasm of my life.'  'David's going to save Spain and he says I give great head.'  At least when you disappear I can live vicariously through you, but you haven't told me anything about Simon since mid-November.  You must really like him, or something."

"Or something," Ryan muttered, and hoped no one noticed he was blushing.  He looked over, and Simon was grinning, damn the man.

"Well, let's have a cocktail, shall we?" Simon said.  He put ice into glasses—he must have filled the ice bucket at some point—and started taking orders and passing out drinks.

"Wait," Cook said, suddenly noticing the others in the room.  "I didn't think you were in town." He pointed at the airmen, and Simon and Ryan. "You all were together tonight, I take it?"

"Yes, sir," Chris said, his shoulders tense.

Lt. Cook looked at them for a long moment, then shook his head and chuckled.

"Sir?" Amanda asked.

Cook looked up. "Look, there's only one conclusion to draw from the fact that you were all together on New Year's Eve someplace Overmyer could wear that tuxedo. And I have to say, you've done a pretty good job hiding it. Well, not you, Lewis, but the others."

"Hey!" Blake said.

Cook grinned. "To the untrained eye, maybe. But hasn't anyone told you that you try a little too hard?"

"Yes," Simon said, as Blake scowled and crossed his arms.

"The untrained eye?" Chris asked. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that sometimes I date women," he replied, and looked at Joel, "and sometimes I date men. And I've been in the Royal Canadian Air Force long enough to have figured out how to do that and stay flying."

"Wow," Amanda said, "I never would have guessed."

"No one has, except Joel here," Cook said, gesturing to him and smiling.

"Joel doesn't count," Ryan said. "He's magic or something."

"As for you, Overmyer, you're lucky—there are plenty of tomboy girls in uniform. You can hide in plain sight. And besides, you have Richardson." Cook paused. "Frankly, Richardson, I don't know how Lewis figured you out."

Joel smiled widely, almost preening. "He's too modest," Joel said. "Harvard man, grandson of a duke, grew up on a damn plantation, handsome like a movie star? He should be striding the earth like a colossus, but instead he deflects all the attention he gets, and doesn't want anyone to look too closely—which means he has something to hide."

"Why don't you ever give me an explanation?" Ryan asked.

"It would take away the magic," Joel replied.

"Actually," Blake said, "we were getting drunk together at a table in the corner of the officers' club and I stared a little too long, and he blushed."

"Aww, you never told me that, Chris," Amanda said.

"You know," Cook said, addressing Chris and Amanda, "this thing between the two of you is probably the best blind you have. Now, what's the club you went to? You have to be careful—"

Simon interrupted.  "You have my word, Lieutenant, that your"—he glanced at Amanda—"_men_ are as safe as houses with me.  And the places for the girls don't get trouble—something about Queen Victoria not believing in lesbians, but she _was_ a bit cock-mad."

"Oh?" Joel asked. "Did you date her?"

Simon scowled. "I'll have you know I was four when she died. Really, McHale." He ignored the snickers and went on, "Now Amanda, Joel very nicely moved your things here, so you and Carly can have Ryan's room tonight if you want it.  Chris and Blake, we'll bring you back to my flat with us.  And tomorrow, Joel and Ryan are going to make us a lovely breakfast, and everything will be as it should be, and Lt. Cook, if you choose to stay for that we'd be very pleased to have you." 

Cook coughed. "I hadn't, um—"

Simon held up his hand. "No need, none of my business, you and Joel are free to continue once we leave." He held up his glass and turned to Ryan. "Cheers to 1940."

Ryan looked around the room, at people he hadn't known even two months ago, and at his old friend, and then at Simon, who'd handled it all so smoothly, and thought well, maybe it _will_ be different this time.  He clinked his glass with Joel's. "Cheers to 1940," he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Stella Dallas_ (dir. King Vidor, 1937) is a melodrama starring Barbara Stanwyck and John Boles.
> 
> Lots of notes this week because of the political discussion! Oh, and because it came up in other locales: rationing in Britain didn't start until January 1940, and restaurants were exempt. Believe me, it will be referred to later in the story.
>
>> _"There were troubles in Ireland when I was young, but by the time I went to university they were ending."_
> 
> Carly would have been three or four at the time of the Easter Rising in 1916; the troubles in Ireland continued through the Anglo-Irish War and then the Irish Civil War, which ended in 1923. At dinner on Christmas Eve she refers to a new constitution, which came into effect in 1937. Ireland was officially neutral during WWII, though many Irish men fought in the war and Ireland gave the Allies assistance.
>
>> _Sig. DePandi, in particular, was furious that nothing had happened in response to either Poland or Finland._
> 
> On 30 November 1939, the Soviets invaded Finland. They fought there until a peace treaty was signed in March 1940. The Germans, of course, had invaded Poland back in September 1939—the event that started WWII in Europe.
>
>> _And the French with their magical line!"
>> 
>> "Maginot, papa," Giuliana said.  
> 
>> 
>> _
> 
> The Maginot Line was a series of concrete fortifications the French built along their borders with both Italy and Germany. Unfortunately, they were more effective for the kind of attacks common in WWI, rather than the airborne attacks used by the Germans in WWII.
>
>> _"Plus there's the Japanese doing as they please in China," Simon went on, "and the Germans making trouble in Argentina of all places."_
> 
> Japan invaded China in 1937, and by November 1939 had cut China off from the sea, such that any foreign aid had to come overland by routes such as the Burma Road. Earlier in December, three British cruisers had battled the German _Graf Spee_, a cruiser that was interfering with British shipping in the Atlantic, near the River Plate on the border of Argentina and Uruguay; the German commander scuttled his ship, resulting in a major propaganda victory for the British. The Battle of the River Plate will be referred to later in the story.
>
>> _"And Cash-and-Carry is getting factories retooled now and creating a lot of jobs, which are needed, let me tell you."_
> 
> Cash-and-Carry was one of the first programs FDR devised to help the Allies without entering the war; it modified the Neutrality Act of 1937 to allow for sales of war materiel on a cash-and-carry basis.
>
>> _"'Croppers are mostly gone now, anyways."_
> 
> Chris is referring to sharecroppers. Sharecropping was a system of labor in the post-Civil War south where landless farmers, usually black, were provided with tools and seed to farm a plot of land in exchange for a share of their crops come the harvest. Sharecropping kept many black farmers in a cycle of debt and dependency that lasted until the Great Migration, when they started to head north. New Deal programs and WWII accelerated the migration, and sharecropping had mostly ended by the 1950s. 


	7. Pursuits of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Unless you're Adolf Hitler, in which case your fancy turns more to thoughts of invading other countries.

_May 9, 1940_

"Morning."

"Mmm.  Do we have to get up?"

"As it happens, no.  It's rather early.  But …"

"But."  Ryan grinned.

Simon leaned over and kissed him, slow and soft, and Ryan felt warm all over.  Simon was on top of him now, their legs entwined.  "Going to take care of you this morning," Simon murmured, and Ryan sank further down into the bed.

Ryan didn't consider himself a particularly effeminate man, certainly not by the standards of homosexuals. He had no desire to put on women's clothing.  He knew how to pass when he needed to. Sometimes he envied safely in-love-and-married Joel, who was so generally odd that no one much noticed his occasional girlishness. But he did have a part of himself—not the dishy, gossipy Hollywood reporter, but another side—who responded to Simon's flashes of gentlemanliness and even, dare he say it, to the working class masculinity that sometimes pushed to the surface despite the Cambridge training. He liked being driven around the countryside, being treated to dinner, the occasional romantic gifts.  And while their sex life, like the rest of their relationship, was a carefully balanced give and take, Ryan loved it when Simon just took care of him. 

Simon was kissing his neck now, nuzzling his ear, and Ryan ran a hand through his thick hair, too stiff for any pomade to hold in place.  Simon's body was covered with thick, dark hair and Ryan loved the feel of it rubbing against his skin.  He started to coo and moan at Simon's touch.  Simon was sliding down his body, taking his time, hands and mouth busy.  Ryan hissed when Simon's mouth licked at his nipples, his hands firm on Ryan's flanks, keeping him from lifting off the bed.  Ryan's hands were rubbing Simon's shoulders now, and he could feel Simon's dick hard and heavy against his thigh.  He loved how Simon revved him up, got him so very hot for it. He reached on the nightstand for the Vaseline jar and slipped it into Simon's hand.

"Bold," Simon said, grinning.

"Please darling," Ryan said.  "Just take me."

Simon chuckled, as he often did when Ryan was feeling girly, but Ryan knew it turned him on, too.  Simon hated pretense, and however he might tease, he always wanted Ryan to be just what he was—it was when Ryan put on a show that Simon recoiled. Simon was pressing thick strong fingers inside him, staring him in the eye as always.  Ryan was trying not to move—Simon's other hand rested on his stomach—or hold his breath.  Simon knelt between Ryan's legs and his dick was gorgeous, almost purple.  The maleness of it was so overwhelming Ryan couldn't help but whimper.

"Almost there, sweetheart," Simon said, rubbing his cock with jelly until it shone in the morning light.  Ryan lifted his legs and Simon put them over his shoulders, then positioned his cock and slid in slowly, steadily, making Ryan hum.  A quick kiss and then he was thrusting, his eyes still on Ryan's.

"Harder, darling, please," Ryan said, and Simon complied, really giving it to him, bending him in two with the force of it.  Ryan had gone from whimpering to a sort of whiny-cooing, a high-pitched sound usually too embarrassing to make.  But he wanted to be that nancy-boy for Simon today, which was manly in its way.  Ryan's yelps and squeals blended with Simon's caveman-like grunting but it was Simon's eyes, so dark with lust, which made him shudder.  The fucking and the grinding of both of their bodies against his cock was going to be enough, but Ryan wanted to pace himself, enjoy the ride a little longer.  But Simon growled, twisting his body, and Ryan came, screaming, and he really didn't care.  It wasn't much longer before Simon was coming too, shouting with it himself.

They collapsed and untangled, breathless and sweaty, and then Simon started to chuckle.

"What?" Ryan asked, turning to him.

"I'm just—I'm just happy, I guess."

"Oh!" Ryan replied, surprised.  "I'm glad.  I mean, me too.  I mean—both!"

Simon, really laughing now, gave him a kiss.  "We should shower."

They slipped on nightshirts and emerged from Ryan's bedroom to see Joel and Cook sitting at the kitchen table in dressing gowns.  "Ryan, I know you're in love and all," Joel said, "but you could be quieter.  Cook fucked me into the mattress last night but you didn't hear me screaming about it."

"Seriously," Cook added, not looking up from his crossword.

Simon could feel himself blushing—it was annoying, really, how easily it happened, when he rarely felt ashamed.  Ryan just smirked as he poured himself a cup of coffee and put on a kettle for Simon. "Probably wasn't as good," he said.

"You could give us pointers," Joel replied.  "Since you're such an expert."

"Don't think your wife would like that much," Ryan said, "permission or no."

Joel grumbled.  "_Fine_."  Then he grinned almost immediately.  "Who wants eggs?" He stood and joined Ryan in the kitchen.

Cook leaned over to Simon, his eyebrows knit slightly.  "I know I'm dating a girl and fucking a man, but those two have a strange relationship, right?"

"Very weird," Simon said, and they snickered.

"Hey!" Ryan and Joel said, almost in unison.

"What?" Simon asked.

"You can't—you can't sit there and giggle with my man right in front of me, Cook."

Simon was grinning widely now. Usually he had no time for jealousy but this was delightful. "Are you warning another man away from me, Ryan?"

Ryan had his hands on his hips and the determined expression that was Simon's favorite. "Maybe I am."

"Gotta respect that," Cook said, "though McHale, I'm not sure where you have cause to—"

"Oh, no," Joel said, "that was out of loyalty to Ryan."

Ryan turned. "Really? Thanks!"

Joel patted Ryan on the shoulder. "Always looking out for you, pal."

"Well, for the record," Cook said, "Cowell's a swell fellow but not really my type. And anyway, I have my hands pretty full at the moment."

"And how _are_ things going with Miss Clarkson?" Simon asked.

"Brother, she is the definition of hot and cold.  I took her out last night and she was all laughs, it was fantastic.  And then I had to make a phone call, and when I came back she wasn't having it.  I barely got a kiss."

Ryan, who was at the oven making toast, asked, "Phone call?"

"Yeah, had to call in.  We've got these three days now so the Brits can have the weekend, and we need to check in—you never know."

"Ah," Simon said.  "That's right, it's a bank holiday weekend.  We should go to the country."

"Yes, and small David has off school so we should bring him along if he doesn't have plans," Ryan replied.  "How is he doing, anyway?  Flying, I mean."

"He's a natural," Cook said.  "Focused, takes direction well, good instincts.  Whichever air force he decides to join will be lucky to have him."

Joel and Ryan brought plates of fried eggs and toast back to the table, and a cup of tea for Simon.  Joel sat, crossing his legs before draping a napkin across his lap.  Cook looked down at Joel's foot and said, "Those nails need a touch-up."

Simon leaned over to Ryan and stage-whispered, "How can they be queerer than we are?"

Cook and Joel both protested, but Ryan just laughed.

* * *

Kimberley Locke, escorted by Pilot-Officer Robinson, handsome in his more casual leather jacket, blinked in the late morning sunshine as she emerged from the Leicester Square Tube station.  "This way," she said, pointing down Charing Cross Road.

"Stores?" Robinson asked.

Kim grinned up at him.  "Not any stores," she said.  "_Second-hand bookstores_."

"Miss Locke, you have discovered my weakness," Robinson replied.  "Lead the way."

After the first two stores, Kim learned that despite all the fiction they'd been reading together, Robinson gravitated to the engineering section of the store, poring through books on aviation.  She imagined him tinkering around in a little workshop on his off hours.  She unearthed copies of mysteries she hadn't yet read, and between the two of them they bought so many books even Robinson couldn't carry them, so Kim arranged to have them delivered to the house, and agreed to keep some of them for Robinson, and send them out to him as needed.  They didn't make it to all of the stores along the road, but they did cover most of them before they were exhausted, and wandered into a pub for lunch.

"So," Kim said, "we're alone now, and I know you've read them—you sent a very mysterious postcard!"

Robinson smiled.  "You're bursting at the seams to talk about this."

"No shame in that!  So tell me," Kim said, leaning in closer, "what did you think of Mr. Darcy?"

Robinson twisted his mouth into a rueful smile.  "I loved him. And you were right that he changed for himself, but I think he did it for her, too, a little bit."

"I'll take that," Kim said. 

"Reading it again now that I'm older, I definitely had a different reaction, especially to Mr. Bennett."

"Why?" she asked. 

"Well, I know he understands Lizzie and all, but I can't help but think that he encouraged her impulses, you know, to judge people."

"I hadn't thought of that," Kim said.

"And he wasn't the sort of father I'd want to be."

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't provide very well, did he?  So the girls had to step in where he had failed, and he didn't even seem guilty about that.  I would be ashamed of myself, Miss Locke, if my children had to support me before my old age."

The food came then, giving Kim time to think.  It wasn't that he was critiquing the book, but Mr. Bennett had always been a favorite of hers.  At times she'd wished that her own father had been so interested in her intellect, but he'd always provided for them, and he had the same strong moral code she sensed in Robinson.  "He did have that moment, after Lydia was married."

"Yes, but only the one."

"And what did you think of Lizzie herself?" Kim asked, as casually as she could.

Robinson's eyes twinkled.  "Of course I liked her.  I enjoy spending time with you, don't I?"

Kim blushed.  "So you think I'm like her?"

"I knew you'd like that," he replied.  "I do, but maybe not as much as you think so."

"No?"

"You remind me more of another character," he said.

"In that book?" she asked.  Horrors, was she like Mary?  She certainly wasn't Jane.

He shook his head.  "Now that I've read all the novels again—and thank you for sending me that omnibus—I realized you're more like one of the other heroines."

Kim set down her fork.  "Are you going to tell me?"

"I don't think that's wise, at least right now," he said.

Kim scowled.  "Well at least tell me I'm not _Fanny_."

Robinson laughed.  "Of course not!  Nor Emma; I'm not interested in lecturing you."

Kim was a little surprised at Robinson comparing himself to Knightley, but let it pass.  "So, Elinor, Anne, or Catherine."

"Don't forget Marianne," he replied.

"I'm not like Marianne!" she protested.  "_Kat_ is like Marianne."

"True, but Daughtry isn't Willoughby," he said firmly.

She smiled at his loyalty to his buddy.  "No, he's her Colonel Brandon, and she's smart enough to know it."  She waited and then said, "You're really not going to tell me?"

"Nope."

"I could hold your books hostage."

"You could," he agreed, "but you won't."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?" she asked.

"No, only stubborn.  Is infuriating better than stubborn?" he asked.  He looked over at the menu, written on a chalkboard on one side of the room.  "No pie," he said.  "Should we have rhubarb crumble or treacle pudding?"

If it had been a movie, Kim thought, she would make some clever remark of disgust, perhaps throw down her napkin in frustration.  But it wasn't a movie, and actually, the whole thing was sort of funny, even if the joke was on her.  "Treacle pudding, I think," she said.

* * *

Burnshaw was warm and sunny—almost unseasonably warm for mid-May in England.  Great day for a ride, though, and straight after lunch Amanda and Carly donned boots and jodhpurs and took two horses out for a good run through the grounds.  Chris's grandparents were in London for the week—something about a special session in Parliament—so the four had the estate to themselves for the three-day furlough.  (Except for the staff, of course.)  Amanda had wondered if they had to dress for dinner given the absence of the Duke and Duchess but Carly wanted to see Amanda in a pretty dress, so they did, and then set up the gramophone in the ball room and danced all together, music and laughter echoing in the mostly-empty space.

Carly was riding ahead of Amanda, giving her an excellent ogling opportunity.  She had quite a good seat—probably better than Amanda's, for all her lessons.  It was so warm they hadn't bothered with jackets, and Carly's blouse fit her perfectly, curving into her waist and flaring out around her breasts.  And the jodhpurs—if Carly were a less experienced rider, leaning forward in the saddle, Amanda would probably have been too distracted to control her own horse.  Though between the view and the heat and the feel of the animal under her, she was barely withstanding temptation as it was.

Carly slowed until the horses were walking next to each other.  "I could do with a rest and some shade," she said.  Amanda's eyes dropped for a second, looking down Carly's slightly unbuttoned blouse, before meeting Carly's.  But the moment wasn't lost on Carly, and she shook her head with the same kind of affectionate reproof Amanda often inspired in Chris.

"Over here," Amanda said, pointing the way to a glade near the brook that ran through part of the grounds.  They led the horses to the water and sat down in the moss at the base of a large tree, the partial shade a relief from the hot sun.  Amanda took out her pocket watch.

"How long have we been out?" Carly asked.

"Two hours," Amanda replied.

Carly leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes.  _Pretty girl_ Amanda thought, and leaned in for a kiss, but Carly's eyes flew open.

"Did you bring me here to take advantage of me?" she asked.

"Maybe," Amanda said.

"Just checking," Carly replied, smiling, and then they were kissing, falling sideways on the mossy ground.  Hands slid into shirts, releasing one more button for easier access.  Carly shuddered a little at Amanda's touch—she often did, as her round, firm breasts were a little sensitive, but Amanda couldn't keep her hands off them.  Carly was gasping into Amanda's mouth, writhing on the ground but still going further, unfastening Amanda's belt and untucking her shirt.  But while Amanda often went directly to her object, Carly took her time—just now she was stroking Amanda's stomach—and it drove her insane.

"C'mon, baby," Amanda said.  She leaned down, pushing Carly's shirt down and reaching inside to pull the nipple to her lips.  Carly's skin was warm, salty with sweat, smelled of gardenia perfume, and it was a heady thing.

Carly was on her back now, hair fanned out across the dirt and grass at the base of the tree.  She pulled Amanda's hair from its sleek ponytail and it fell in chestnut waves around her face.  "What do you want?" Carly asked.

Amanda looked down, grinning.  She moved her hand down, cupping Carly's quim through the tight fabric of her jodhpurs.  "This," she said, sliding up for another kiss.  She buried her other hand in Carly's hair, loving the thickness of it, cupping her skull in her palm.

Carly, for her part, was holding fast to Amanda's bicep as she often did.  Her other hand copied Amanda's, her thumb on Amanda's clit, rubbing it hard through her trousers.  They were moaning, writhing against each other in the mossy soil, legs flailing, and Carly's gardenia scent mixed with the green smell of grass and earth.  The trickle of the nearby brook merged in Amanda's mind with the wetness she felt between her own legs, and she could only imagine what it would be like to open Carly's trousers now, her quim flushed red, running with juices, lips swollen like the lips she was kissing now.  A haze settled over her senses, so that hearing became feeling became tasting and smelling, tree and hair and grass, mouth and brook and quim, warm Carly and warm sunshine.

Then Carly twisted her hand, _so_, and Amanda was crying out her name, spasming, riding that relentless hand, but still rubbing with her own, even as she came.  Carly was grinning, and as Amanda came down she wanted to wipe that grin off her face so she splayed her fingers, pushing Carly's legs open further, and it didn't take much more for Carly to come, too.

"Ha," Amanda said.

Carly kissed her sweetly, and they lay there on the ground under the tree, in no rush.  Amanda loved the feel of Carly in her arms, soft and warm.

"What's that noise?" Carly asked.

"What?"  She listened and could just hear splashing.  "Well, the brook gets wider not far from here—I bet it's the boys.  Wanna go see?"

Carly nodded and they stood, buttoning back up.  They tied the horses loosely to a nearby tree and walked around the bend. The boys were indeed there, swimming, and, given the lump of clothes nearby, naked.  But stealing clothes was kids' stuff and anyway, orgasms made Amanda mellow.  She leaned against a tree and quoted:  "_The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water_."

Chris looked up and laughed.  "_The bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards_."

"What was that?" Carly asked.

"Whitman," Amanda replied.  "Chris's favorite poem."  She smiled down at the boys.

"Come in!" Blake shouted.

"How cold is it?" Amanda asked.

"Find out!" he taunted.

It didn't take her long to add her blouse, bra, jodhpurs, boots and panties to the pile.  She jumped right in and came up sputtering—the water was freezing!  "Fuck you Blake Lewis," she said, and Blake cackled in response.

"Come on, Carly," Chris said.  "Join the party.  Amanda'll warm you up later."

Carly stood for a moment, and then Amanda winked at her, so in she came.  Funny how easily she fit into the group, just as Blake had insinuated himself into the Chris-and-Amanda unit back in Calgary.  They swam for a bit in the cold water, and then dressed and got the horses and rode back to the house, Chris with Carly and Amanda with Blake.  Amanda looked around them, at the land and the sun shining down and got a little shiver.

"What is it?" Blake, who was sitting behind her, asked.

"I don't know," she said.  "I'm almost too happy, you know?"

She could sense Blake turning to look at Chris.  "Yeah," he said.  "I know."

* * *

Dinner was lovely, the three singers and three airmen making a merry party as usual, and while Cook and Robinson walked Kim and Kelly home, Kat and Daughtry wandered off in their own direction, as they were wont to do. 

"I had a very nice time tonight.  Thank you so much," Kim said.  "I love my flowers."  Robinson had brought her a bouquet of silvery-pink tulips, which were now in a little jar next to her bed.

"I'm glad," Robinson said.  "I had a good time, too.  Uh, so we're supposed to leave in the late morning, and I wondered, you talked so about those biscuits …"

"Of course you can come for breakfast!" Kim said.  "I'm only sorry I didn't think of it first.  All three of you should come."

"Thank you."  Robinson paused for a moment, and then suddenly he leaned down and kissed Kim on the cheek.  "Well, good night," he said, moving away.

"Goodnight," Kim said, resisting the impulse to put her hand to her cheek.  Cook was walking away too, and Kelly went back inside, but Kim felt rooted to the spot, watching until Robinson and Cook rounded the corner. She walked into the house more confused than ever.  Robinson was certainly odd—he never actually behaved like a suitor, like the romantic Daughtry or even the more light-hearted Cook.  And yet sometimes she felt that they were more than just friends.  Well, it wasn't as though she was turning down other suitors.

There was a small dish of leftover snap peas in the icebox, and she munched on them as she walked up to her bedroom.  Kat and Daughtry would be out walking for quite a while, knowing them, and knowing Jen she'd be out all hours, but Kim had a new book to devour and surely something could be found on the "wireless."  She opened the door to the bedroom and stepped inside, just about to reach for the light switch when, by the moonlight streaming in the window, she saw something moving near Jen's bed.  Surprised, she dropped the bowl and peas scattered all over the floor. 

"Kat?" Jen asked.

"No, it's Kim."  Something shifted then, and she realized Jen wasn't alone.  "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't go, Kim," said a male voice, though she wasn't sure if it was Rickey Smith or his cousin Nicky.

"Yeah, stay," said another voice, and she realized that they were _both_ there.  Not that this was surprising.

"Lock the door and come over here, Kim," Jen said, and now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light she could see Jen was sitting up in her bed, naked, her arms open in welcome.  Rickey was to her left, Nicky her right, and they were nude too, their skin dark against the sheets. 

Kim wasn't thinking; she was so tired of thinking, of trying to work out what Robinson was doing and how to respond, of trying not to see more than was there.  This was easy, just another dalliance with a boy in a band—or, if it was possible, even less complicated than that, as neither of these boys were here for her, and Jen, well, Jen was the one doing the inviting.  She turned the lock behind her and walked toward Jen's bed, dropping her purse on her own bed.

"Sit next to Rickey," Jen said.  "He got what he wanted already so he should be inclined to be _generous_."  She gave him a look.

"I am so inclined," Rickey said, "as a matter of fact."  He smiled and Kim thought, _Rickey is a friend_.  He stood and unbuttoned her cardigan, slipping it off and laying it on her bed, then unzipped her dress.  She slipped out of her shoes, and then Rickey was taking off her bra and her panty girdle.  Whether it was the partial darkness or just the oddness of the situation she wasn't sure, but she didn't feel awkward in the least.  Rickey rolled her stockings off and there she was, naked like the rest of them.

"Good," Jen said.  "Just do whatever Kim wants, Rickey.  Now, Nicky, back to what you were doing, honey."  Nicky winked at Kim before rolling on top of Jen, his head between her legs. 

"What would you like, Kim?" Rickey asked, gently pulling her back so they sat on her bed.

Kim watched Nicky licking his way up Jen's body, making her giggle.  "Just—just your hands, that's fine, I think."

"You don't want a kiss?" he asked.

She brought her hand to her cheek.  "No, Rickey, thank you, but no."

"All righty," he said.  He sat behind her, straddling her body, and she leaned back in his arms.  She spread her legs and his hand slid between them, the other fondling a breast, and she let herself be carried away.

Seeing another couple having sex wasn't entirely new to Kim; she'd been singing for a while, and sometimes that meant sharing bedrooms with girls who weren't particularly modest.  And Jen was so relaxed about this sort of thing that it was difficult to be particularly surprised that Kim had finally caught her at it.  Nicky had entered Jen and was pushing in and out of her now, his high muscular buttocks flexing with each thrust.  She thought of Robinson, of the behind that showed when he wore his bomber jacket, the behind she'd spent most of the day trying not to stare at.  Jen had her eyes closed, head tipped back, and Nicky was grunting.  Rickey was warm around her, his fingers busy doing their work, but in her mind they were Robinson's fingers, Robinson's body solid behind her, Robinson making love to her on the bed.  Nicky was close, moving faster, and Jen was biting her lip to keep from shouting.  Kim could feel herself dissolving; she closed her eyes, letting the wave crash over her, and whispered Robinson's name.

When she opened her eyes again, Rickey had leaned back away from her.  Nicky was sitting up and he and Jen were looking at her, too.  She felt suddenly shy and closed her legs, then grabbed her nightie from the foot of her bed and held it over her breasts.

"Oh Kim," Jen said, shaking her head.  "All right boys, time for you to go."  Like well-trained dogs, the boys obeyed, putting their clothes back on, and Kim slipped her nightie over her head.  They gave Jen a kiss, and Kim friendly pecks atop her head, and then snuck out over the balcony and down a nearby tree.

Kim switched on the bedside lamp then, and began putting away her clothes.  Jen stretched out on the bed like a cat.

"You'd better put something on before Kat comes back," Kim said.

"I will," she replied.  "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Kim said, hanging her dress in the closet.

"Are you still a virgin?"

"Yep," she answered.

"But that wasn't the first time you went petting."

"Oh, no," she said.  "But I'd like to save something."

Jen poked her head up through her nightgown.  "For marriage?"

"Yeah, make it special."  She unlocked the bedroom door, then crawled into bed, putting her new book on the nightstand next to her flowers—it would have to wait until tomorrow.  "Make it mean something."

"Something besides forever?" Jen asked, smiling.  "What about that Robinson?  He's a handsome one, and he pays a lot of attention to you."

"Oh, he's just a friend," Kim said.

"You know you could have any of the boys in the band if you just lifted your little finger."

"Maybe.  But not Rickey or Nicky."

"Oh, I can't _decide_, Kim.  Nicky is so sweet and Rickey is so funny.  If only they were together in one person!"

"Jen, if you really felt strongly for one of them, you'd know."

The door opened then—Kat, coming home, dreamy smile as she closed the door behind her.  "Oh _girls_," she said, closing her eyes and leaning against the door, "Christopher is just—the end!"  She opened her eyes and looked down.  "Why are there peas all over the floor?"

* * *

Kim had just pulled biscuits out of the oven when Robinson knocked on the kitchen door, Daughtry just behind him.  "I hope we're not early," he said.

"Lord, no," Mandisa replied.  "Show folks always sleepin' in, except Kim here."

"I like mornings," she said.  "I nap in the afternoon instead.  I'm sure Kat will be down directly."

"Sit down, boys," Mandisa said.  "Now, we have biscuits and sausage gravy, and eggs, and you know these English folks have a grilled tomato and I think it goes real nice."

The boys thanked her, and sat down.  "Aren't you eating, Miss Locke?" Robinson asked.

"I had an egg earlier, but now the biscuits are done—" she sat down and split one on a plate, slathering it with butter and jam.

Kat walked in then, fresh as a daisy in a pretty polka-dotted dress, a ribbon in her hair.  "Good morning all!" she said, perching on a chair next to Daughtry.

"Good morning Katharine," Daughtry said.  "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, Christopher, thank you," she said with just a little giggle.  "I hope you did too."

"Won't you have some breakfast?" he asked.

"Oh, I can't eat a thing in the morning," Kat said.  "But you go right ahead."

Kim put the biscuit down, feeling suddenly dumpy in her sunshine yellow cotton dress and blue apron, and she was _sure_ she had flour on her cheek or forehead.  But Robinson caught her eye then, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye and suddenly she didn't really care—much—that she hadn't made a grand entrance.

"Did you start the book, Miss Locke?"

"What?  Oh!  Um, when I went upstairs, Jen was home, and you know.  Girl talk!"  She smiled, hopefully innocently.  "And you?"

"I talked to Cook for a while, and then he left, and I wrote a letter to my mother."

"He doesn't stay with you?"

"No, he's been staying with a friend when he comes to the city—a male friend, nothing for Miss Clarkson to wonder about."

"Sounds like a cozy evening."

"It was," he said, finishing off his biscuit.  He leaned over, getting quite close, and he was warm and smelled of soap.  "I suppose it's too much to ask if there's any pie," he said.

She smiled.  "There's _always_ pie," she said, and rose to pull one out of the cupboard.

"Is that pie?" asked a voice at the door.

Kim looked up to see Lt. Cook.  "It is, please, come have some."

"Thanks," he said, sitting down on the other side of Kim.  "Say, do you have a radio in here?"

"We do," Mandisa said, and switched it on.

"… and the King is expected to speak within the hour.  Again, the announcement from Downing Street, Neville Chamberlain has resigned and a new government has been formed under the leadership of Winston Churchill."

"Not surprising after Norway," Cook said, "but still."

"Norway?" Kat asked.

Robinson looked like he was trying not to smile; Cook just looked confused.  Daughtry took Kat's hand.  "You remember, sweetheart.    Last month the Germans invaded."

"More like, got an invitation," Robinson said.

"But why would Mr. Chamberlain lose his job?" she asked.

"Because the Brits sent forces to Norway," Daughtry replied, "and they lost."

"Badly," Cook added. 

At that moment Paula came floating into the kitchen, waving her hand.

"Girls, girls!  Simon—Mr. Fuller that is—oh look!  I'm getting married again!" she announced, and dropped into one of the chairs.  Kim and Kat immediately went to Paula's side, gushing over the sizable diamond ring, asking for proposal details (he took her to dine in a private room of an exclusive restaurant, where he went down on one knee).  "November some time, in the back garden of this very house—I'll need your excellent help, Mrs. Studdard."

"Miss Abdul, I'd be honored to help you plan your wedding," Mandisa said, smiling.

"And all of you should be there, including you," Paula said, indicating Cook, Robinson and Daughtry.  "Oh, I have to write my mother, and Rabbi Yamin, maybe he'll officiate.  So much to do, so much to do!" she said, and floated out of the kitchen, congratulations following her.

Cook took a last bite of pie.  "We should go.  Catch that train."

The men rose, and thanked Mandisa, and Daughtry and Kat stepped outside for a moment before Robinson and Cook followed.  Suddenly Kelly came running through the kitchen and out the door.  "Hey Cook!"

He turned, walking backwards.  "Yeah?"

"Don't get yourself shot!"

He grinned.  "I'll try to avoid that."

"Good!"

The other boys turned and waved, and then they were around the corner and gone.  Kat, as usual, was a little teary, so Kim wrapped an arm around her.  "All right ladies," she said.  "We've got a show to do tonight."

* * *

Paddington Station was busy with working people headed to offices and others getting an early start on their bank holiday weekend.  Amanda, Blake and Chris sat near the track for their train, using their piled kit bags as cushions.  Carly was still with them, which made it feel like they were still on their little break even though they were just waiting on the train.  The other men in the squadron assumed she was dating either Chris or Blake, and gossip (which Castro and Grigsby faithfully reported to Amanda out of some sense of loyalty) couldn't decide which was more likely, much as the gossip couldn't decide if Chris and Amanda were secretly fucking, or had once but were now merely friends.  Amanda would laugh and ask why she couldn't have a "girlfriend" who wasn't dating her childhood friend or his buddy, but as long as the gossip didn't get near the truth, it was more helpful than not. Cook had advised that they use it, play it up to distract folks from what was really going on, so Carly waiting with them for the train was useful in more ways than one.

Cook, with Robinson and Daughtry, was the last of the airmen to arrive and hustled them into a separate car near the back of the train—Amanda managed a quick hug with Carly before they were on on their way back to the base.  She was glad Pastor Sligh was with them, so the boys would put a damper on the sex talk, something they'd long since stopped worrying about in her presence.  "Where'd y'all go, Padre?" she asked, knowing he'd been traveling with Bice and Stacey.

"Winchester Cathedral," he replied.  "So beautiful, deeply spiritual." 

"And some castles," Bice added.  "Got some little things for the wife."

"Took Sligh to the Pyramid club one night," Stacey said.

"Uh oh," Rogers said, grinning.

"Now, I enjoyed it!" Sligh said.  "Very energetic, very entertaining, creative.  That Miss Abdul is delightful."

"Engaged," Robinson said.  "To that Fuller fella who owns the club."

"We were at their house this morning," Cook explained, "and when she came in with that diamond, you should have seen the girls' faces."

"Look out, Daughtry," Young teased, jabbing him with an elbow.  "You're next."

"And that girl looks like the big diamond type," Lewis added. 

"Don't rush me," Daughtry said.  "I'm taking my time."

"What about you, Robinson?" Grigsby asked.  "You've been seeing a lot of that Miss Locke."

Robinson smiled, a bit wistfully.  "Now," he answered, "we're just friends.  We read books together."

"Friends who send each other postcards two or three times a week," Rogers said.

"Maybe," Robinson admitted, a little sheepishly, "but I don't think I'm her type.  Anyway, what about you?  Run out of chorus girls yet?"

"I'll have you know that Young and I went to the museum and saw _art_."

"Paintings of kings and stuff," Young added.

"Did you bring the girls with you?" Robinson asked.

"'Course not!" Rogers said.

"Leaves more girls for us," Castro said, leaning back and crossing his ankles.

"What about you, Richardson?" Cook asked.

"We were lazy," Chris said.  "Mostly just slept and ate.  Rode a bit."

Cook nodded, and Amanda felt odd, as she usually did when she remembered what he knew—heck, what he was doing himself.  "How's your girl, Lt. Cook?" she asked.  "Got her yet?"

"That girl," Daughtry said, "is _crazy_."

"I just wish she'd make up her mind," Cook said.

"Plenty of other girls," Rogers said.

Cook sighed.  "Not for me.  Good thing I was staying with McHale—he never lets a fella get gloomy."

Blake looked dangerously close to making a smart remark, but just then the car door opened, and Lt. Rogers poked his head in.  "Check in full?" he asked.

"Yep," Cook said.  "You?"

"Yep.  Something's up, though.  I think they're tryin' to keep it quiet, but when I called this morning I couldn't even _get_ the captain.  And you and I are to report in as soon as we get there."

"Do you think—" Cook began.

"Wouldn't be surprised.  I've told my men, thought you fellas should know, too."

"Thanks, Matt," Cook said, shaking Lt. Rogers's hand. 

"Anytime, David," Rogers replied, and left.

Cook turned, and his face had gone from joking to very grave.  "Well, you heard him, men.  Dunno what's happened but get good at writing.  Don't think we'll be back in London for a while."

* * *

Kim was running just a little late—her evening and morning had thrown her off kilter.  She, Kat and Jen were meeting Carly for lunch, something she was very much looking forward to as Carly had been away for the past few days.  She'd got downstairs only to realize she'd left her gloves in her other bag, and had to run back upstairs to get them.

Most of the chorus girls who shared their floor of the house were still sleeping their night off, but Kim heard noises coming from one room.  Whether it was pain or sex she couldn't tell, but if one of the girls was fool enough to have a man in her room during the day she'd be lucky to be discovered by Kim rather than Mandisa or Paula.  The door was ajar, so she peeked in and saw the noises were definitely sex, though there was no man involved.  But she'd clearly been right about Gina and Haley, as they were writhing around under the covers, eyes closed, mouths open and on each other when they weren't gasping.  Kim shook her head and pulled the door closed, just a bit loudly to make her point, and continued down the hall.  A moment later, she heard the door open again.  "Oh!  Sorry Kim!"

She turned to see Gina in a robe in the hall, Haley peering out the door.  "Just close the door and be quieter!" she said, and ran back down the stairs.

Jen, who was standing with Kat at the foot of the stairs, pointed at her watch, "Were those gloves in France or something?" she teased.

Kim glanced at Kat.  "I'll tell you later," she said.  "Let's go."

Carly was already at the table when they arrived.  "Sorry we're late!" Kim said.  "How was your trip?"

"Lovely!  Burnshaw is even larger and lovelier than I'd imagined.  It was odd—I had to keep pinching myself that I was there.  And you?"

"Oh, _Carly_," Kat said, "it was so _wonderful_."  And Kat was off, breathless with romantic details.  Tuesday, the boys took them to lunch "and Chris gave me the prettiest stationery to write him letters, palest pink with roses!"

When he arrived Robinson had given Kim a book about Gandhi of India, and wrote on the inside flap that she brings everyone peace, which Kim thought was sweet.

They all came to the show "and Chris brought me to a darling little coffee-house after." 

Robinson and Cook and some of the other airmen had gone with Kim, Jen and the band to the after-hours club where things got a bit raucous—chorus girls were dancing on the tables, and Kelly did a shimmy for Cook.  Kim, goaded by Chik Easy, sang a song that (to put it plainly) she wouldn't sing in front of her mother, but it had made Robinson laugh harder than she'd ever seen.

Wednesday they went for a picnic in a park nearby "with some cold fried chicken—didn't you make that, Kim?  I'm so impressed with anyone who can cook and do practical things—I'm afraid I'm _quite_ hopeless!  Anyway, Chris had this little book of poems and I read some aloud—weren't they lovely, Kim?  So romantic!" 

Kim hadn't been listening to Kat—she and Robinson were talking about the Box Hill picnic in _Emma_.  Cook and Kelly were making kazoos out of blades of grass, giving odd nicknames to passersby, and trying not to snicker at Kat reading Browning while Daughtry watched her reverently.

After the show that night the boys came back to the house for coffee "and Chris said how much he loved to hear my voice on the radio, because I seem closer, and it makes the other fellas jealous."

Robinson's comments about her own singing on the radio still amazed Kim; he always paid just a little bit more attention than she thought he did.  Not that what he said was unadulterated praise, but that just proved that he'd given it some thought, taken it seriously.

Thursday the show was dark, "so Chris and I went to a palace!  And we saw the crown jewels, and went to a museum and looked at paintings of kings." 

The results of Kim and Robinson's Thursday afternoon in Charing Cross Road was on the floor of her closet, hers and his books in neat piles.

"… and then we had dinner—oh Carly you should have seen the _roses_!" 

Kim remembered her silvery-pink tulips, the unexpected kiss on the cheek, the dozen little kindnesses, all of which she'd meant to talk to Carly about, but while she still cherished them, she knew they weren't much next to Kat's story, and decided to remain silent.

"… and we went for a long walk in the moonlight and he gave me this"—Kat displayed the locket that now hung around her neck—"isn't it lovely? and with a picture and all!"

Kim _was_ happy for Kat; Daughtry was lovely and adored her and Kat appreciated his quiet intensity where other girls might have overlooked him, or thought him a bit much. She resolved to not let envy get in the way.  "It's very beautiful," Kim said.

"Sounds like you girls had a lovely week," Carly said.

"What about you, Carly?  And here I've been prattling on!" Kat said.  "Did you meet the Duke?"

"For lunch," Carly said.  "His Grace was here in town—Parliamentary debates and all.  But that meant we had the estate to ourselves."

"How fun!" Kat said.  "Oh," and now she whispered, "too much tea!  I'll be right back, but I want to hear all about it!"  She stepped away from the table.

"All right, Kim," Jen said, "what went on upstairs that made you late?"

"Well," Kim said, leaning forward, "Gina and Haley left the door open."

"Tuh," Jen said.  "They're gonna get caught if they're not careful!"

"Caught doing what?" Carly asked.

"Um," Kim began.

"_Making whoopee_," Jen said.

"Oh my," Carly said, flushing a little.  "And you, er, you approve of that?"

"We've seen this before," Kim said with a shrug.

"Live and let live, I say," Jen added.  "More men for me!"

"I see," Carly said.

"Why, honey?" Jen asked.

"Well, I—"

Kim had a sudden flash.  "Carly, are you …"

Carly nodded.

Jen whistled.  "So why are you dating Lewis?"

"I'm not," she said, a little smile on her face.  "I'm dating Overmyer."

"My goodness!" Kim said.  "And Lewis?"

"Is dating Richardson."

"_That_ is a waste of a beautiful man," Jen said.

"Jen!" Kim warned.

"I'm just telling the truth!"

"You can't tell _anyone_, even Robinson.  They could be thrown out of the air force!  Promise!"

"Of course we promise, honey," Jen said, and Kim nodded as well.  "But damn, you must have had _some_ week!"

Carly grinned.  "Oh, we did," she said.

Kat came back, showing her usual impeccable timing.  "So tell me, how was Lewis?  He doesn't seem very gentlemanly, I must admit."

"Oh, I'm not dating Lewis," Carly said.  "I'm dating Richardson."

"I thought he was with that Overmyer."

"Oh no, they're like brother and sister.  _She's_ with Lewis."

"That makes so much more sense!" Kat said.  "I don't think Overmyer wants a gentleman."

Jen suddenly started coughing into her napkin.  "Sorry," she said, avoiding Kim and Carly's eyes, "went down the wrong way."

Kat turned to Carly.  "Tell me all!"

As Carly began her story, of dapper men in tuxedos dressed for dinner and dancing to the Victrola in the grand ballroom, Kim couldn't tell where the truth was and which bits were fibs.  She felt even more ashamed of her earlier envy of Kat; after all, if he wanted to, Robinson could take her hand, or dance with her, at any time.  She made a mental note to take Carly out to tea privately, very soon.  Just as Kim deserved to tell the few things she could about Robinson, so Carly deserved to tell her own story to a friend—the true story.

* * *

Years, even decades later, Simon would remember that evening with perfect clarity.  They were sitting in Ryan's office eating dinner from the BBC cafeteria—pub food, really; he remembered the greasy aftertaste of chips.  Small David was there, gobbling up the Churchill news like the little politics swot he was, reading bits of the debate.  Ryan and Joel were there of course, having interviewed various American contacts and sent the tapes to New York to be incorporated into the news broadcasts, and it was odd to think of Ryan doing hard news; the part of Ryan who wrote _The Great Lost Cause_ only revealed himself on occasion, even now.  Giuliana was eating with them, too; the other reporters had kept her jumping all day, as the secretaries in the news division were flat out and needed the help.  Carly had been to lunch with those Pyramid singers, girl talk from what Simon could glean, but also a report that Kim would have some new songs for him shortly, and God bless her for that.  Kim was improving but Simon was waiting for that click, and it hadn't come yet.  Where _was_ that song? 

Carly and Joel were comparing bizarre notes about their airman lovers—what must small David make of all this, Simon wondered, particularly as Cook was his flight instructor with all attendant hero worship, but like everything else the boy took it all in stride.  (Though, come to think of it, his uncle "big" David was Ryan's ex, so small David must be used to it; Simon just avoided thinking about David Hernandez as much as possible.)  But mostly they were talking about the recent stunning political developments.   And Ryan's hand was warm in his own, under the desk.

A knock at the door—Giuliana answered—it was Nigel, looking very pale, and Nigel was almost never thrown by anything at all.  Simon sat up, a little current of fear, keeping his hand in Ryan's.  "What _is_ it?" he asked, almost not wanting to.

"The Germans have invaded Belgium and are on their way to France," Nigel said.  "Circumvented the Maginot line entirely."

They all froze.  Ryan asked, "Like Norway?"

"Much worse," Nigel said.  "Nothing phony about this war now.  Turn on your speaker—report will hit the air in five."

Small David managed to do just that, and they sat there, listening to the report, huddled together around Ryan's desk.

He probably looked at everyone, though later he only remembered small David's grim determination growing steelier, Carly biting her lip with worry, and Ryan of course.  Ryan turned to him, brave and scared and excited all at once, and Simon wished this were all some bizarre deja vu.  But here it was, all around them, new.  He held Ryan's hand tighter.

No.  It wouldn't happen again.  He wouldn't let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pursuits of Happiness_ is a book by the philosopher Stanley Cavell; more on him later.
>
>> _"Not surprising after Norway …"_
> 
> The Germans invaded Norway on 3 April 1940, and British troops landed to assist resistance to the Germans on 14 April. But their efforts failed, and all British troops were pulled out of Norway on 28 April, after only two weeks of fighting. Debate followed in the House of Commons, with Chamberlain coming under attack from both the opposition Labor Party and backbenchers in his own Conservative party. It was determined best that a new coalition government be formed, under Winston Churchill, and Chamberlain resigned.
> 
> And yes, the Germans really did invade the Low Countries of Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands the very day Churchill became the new Prime Minister. The government knew of this some hours before it hit the press—hence Rogers and Cook being told to report immediately upon arriving at the base.
> 
> Even though the Soviets had invaded Finland in November—referred to in ch. 6—and the Germans invaded Norway in April, the invasion of the Low Countries is considered the end of the so-called Phoney War that had lasted since the German invasion of Poland in September.


	8. Gaslight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of France. Also, dancing.

_May 26, 1940_

Sgt. Amanda Overmyer was frustrated.  She hadn't really considered, being so distracted by the practicalities of her own training, that when push came to shove she wouldn't actually be _in_ the fight.  Back when she and Chris were kids, she'd done the fighting for both of them; whenever some kid had called him fat or a pansy or a sissy they'd met the business end of her fist or her patent leather mary jane.  It hadn't taken much of that before the kids in town had learned not mess with either of them.  At college Amanda had been close enough to check in every once in a while, but Harvard had been a different sort of place than Virginia, and money, football and a titled father had been enough for popularity—not to mention that Chris had finally grown out of his baby fat and into his own skin.  Of course once they were out on the road barnstorming Chris was old enough to take care of himself. So was Amanda, though sometimes Chris helped.

But now all she could do was go over the checklist again; the fight was his.  At first she paced like a tiger in a cage, and once nearly got into a fight with Sgt. Covington just for the fun of punching his absurd face in. Then Castro offered to teach her how to play his guitar.  She hadn't sung since Calgary, and it soothed her somehow, distracted her without being _a_ distraction.  Still, she envied Chris, who fought pretty damn close to face to face, even though RAF High Command kept Capt. Johns's group of six squadrons in reserve, so instead of flying over France, they patrolled the Channel.

On this day when the boys got back there was another briefing in store, and when they got to the briefing room Capt. Johns was waiting for them, as were the two squadrons he'd brought with him from Australia and the two regular Canadian squadrons, so it was a tight squeeze in the room with all the pilots and mechanics standing around.  Everyone looked tired—they'd been working morning and night, grabbing shuteye when they could—but Johns seemed more in need of sleep than any of them.

"Men," Johns said, "you've fought hard and well, but our mission is about to change.  You're to continue to concentrate on the Channel coast, but now we will be protecting a strategic retreat."

A ripple went through the crowd—even the six lieutenants standing in the front with Capt. Johns looked alarmed, and Lt. Cook was never surprised by anything.

"I can't tell you the port at this time," Johns continued, "only that it will be within our range."  There was a British Army installation at Dunkirk, Amanda knew; that much had been in the papers.  But it was possible that a different site had been chosen.  Johns went on—more about how the flights would work together—and then the ANZACs were off to the field, the Canadians to the mess hall, the Americans to a well-deserved rest.

It was a somber walk back, the men deep in thought.  Most stopped by the club for a drink; a few went straight to the barracks for bed.  Chris, nonchalant, announced that he was antsy and wanted more of a walk and Blake, of course, went with him. Cook watched them go, unreadable as always, then said "I should write to Mother" and headed off to the quarters he shared with Lt. Rogers, leaving Amanda and Robinson the only ones walking toward the recreation room.

"Hope you don't mind the company," Amanda said.

"Not at all," Robinson replied.  "Don't think I'll be finding solace in a book tonight.  Probably _shouldn't_ be alone, actually."  He flicked on the lights.  "Heard Castro's been teaching you guitar."

"Yeah," Amanda said, following him to the piano.

He sat down and lifted the cover.  "Oughtta be able to find something we both know," he said, playing a few chords. 

Amanda pulled up a chair and sat nearby, watching him play something not quite a song, just as Chris so often would when he was thinking.

"So," he said, "I guess you're sweet on that radio engineer."

"McHale?" Amanda asked, making a point to look him in the eye.  "He's married."

Robinson smiled.  "No, I meant Miss Hennessey."

She tried to keep a neutral expression.  "Er—"

"You know," Robinson continued, as though he'd said nothing much, "I almost caught Richardson and Lewis once, back in Calgary.  But it was new then, I reckon.  They're a lot more careful now."  He glanced up from the keys.  "Don't worry.  These people wouldn't know it if you diagrammed it for them."

Amanda cleared her throat.  "And you?"

"Oh, I've been around," he replied.  "Clever, covering for each other."

"Please, you're not—"

"Come on, what do you take me for?" he asked, smiling.  "Not sure I'd be here if they hadn't stood up for me.  Besides, we misfits gotta stick together."

"Yeah," Amanda said, and wondered if she'd tell Chris.  
   
"So as I was saying, you're sweet on her?"  
   
"Yeah," Amanda said, smiling, and thought how strange to talk to someone other than Chris.  "She just—she isn't like anyone else I've ever known.  She's smart and funny and she doesn't try to put me in a box—"  
   
"No one could do that for long," he said.  
   
"No, I guess not.  And she likes Chris and he likes her, and Blake too.  And did I mention that she's gorgeous?  Only no one seems to know it; she hides it away under all those suits."  
   
"She is a beautiful girl."  
   
"And, well, I don't want to be vulgar, but—"  
   
"You two are having a good time?" he asked, smiling.  
   
She grinned.  "That we are.  So what about your girl, Robinson?  You certainly have a lot of books and postcards going back and forth."  
   
He shrugged.  "She's not my girl."  
   
"Only because you haven't done anything to make her yours."  
   
"She's a singer, and I'm just an engineer.  You can't court a girl like that with books."  
   
"I don't know," Amanda said, "You look like you're doing a pretty good job of it.  Have you kissed her yet?"  
   
Robinson's back straightened.  "Of course not!"  
   
"But you want to?" she asked, smirking.  
   
"Yeah, but geez, Overmyer."  
   
"And you have kissed a girl before, right?"  
   
"More than that, but I wasn't brought up to talk about that in mixed company."  
   
"Aww, c'mon," she said.  "You know I don't count."

Robinson shook his head.  "Gershwin, I think," he said, as his playing coalesced into "Someone to Watch Over Me."  "You know this one?"

"I do," Amanda replied, and began to sing.

* * *

_May 27, 1940_

Kimberley Locke looked askance at the new costume—shimmering violet bodice, gauzy sleeves and pantaloons—and said, "Where's the fez?"

Jennifer, who'd been given a similar deep orange costume, cracked up, but Katharine asked, "What's a fez?"

"You know," Kim said, "those hats with the tassel that monkeys wear."  She mimed its short cylindrical shape above her head.

"Oh, that's what they're called?" Kat said.  She giggled. 

"Girls," Paula scolded.  "This isn't helpful."

Paula's way of coping with the sudden anxiety of her girls, many of whom were worrying after the American airmen, was to stage a new elaborate Arabian Nights-style number to distract them, and was costuming the singers and dancers as harem girls.  Kim had to admit the distraction worked, even on her. "Caravan" was a tricky song to sing, with its mimicry of non-Western harmonics, so the melody didn't go to the usual places.  Not to mention that Randy gave them a complicated vocal arrangement, such that each of them came in and out of the melody line at odd moments, moving from high to low and back instead of just staying, say, a third below the melody.  Paula's choreography was equally complex, with the dancers weaving in and out and even the three singers moving about the stage a good deal after entering on a moving platform that had been dressed up like a Bedouin tent.  "Caravan" would be quite the spectacle.

"They'll make for a rough quick change," Jen said.

"Last number of the night," Paula replied, "and there will be a long dance sequence before to cover your change."

"What are the dancers wearing?" Kat asked, holding her own green outfit to her skin and looking in the mirror.

"The same, but with veils, in black and white of course."

"Of course," Kim said.

Paula scowled, her hands on her hips.  "Well, if you don't like them …"

"We'll wear them, Paula," Jen said.  "They just weren't what I was expecting." 

The three girls dutifully put on the costumes, which fit quite well for a first try, and Paula paraded them out to the front of the club to show them to Randy and Simon Fuller.  The band, unfortunately, was there as well, so there was the usual whistling and cat calling.

Jen put her hand on her hip.  "You boys need to learn some _respect_."

"And you wonder why the girls are dating airmen," Kim added.

George, the quiet piano player, said, "Well, I think those costumes are real fine."

"_Thank_ you, George," Jen said, smiling.  "See, it's not impossible."

The chorus girls came out then, most in their usual rehearsal wear of tap pants and little shirts, but Kelly and Tamyra had on the new chorus costumes, which featured a headscarf instead of their usual wigs.  Randy cocked his head.  "They'll work," he said.

"I think so," Paula agreed.  "Run through?"

"Yeah," Randy said, waving the band into their places on the stage.

Paula clapped her hands.  "All right ladies, let's see how this looks."

[Caravan](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Caravan_1957_Version_/22529784)

Kim, Kat and Jen sat down in the "tent," a small round cushion-covered platform at the back of the stage, and awaited their cue.  Gauzy white curtains surrounded the three of them, creating a tent effect, and once they had sat on the cushions they pulled the curtains closed.  The band started playing, and Kim could just see the girls dancing in front of them through the fabric of the curtains. Because she was usually changing her costume during the dance numbers, Kim rarely had the chance to just sit and watch the girls moving about and making the elaborate patterns that Paula favored—anyone could see how influenced she'd been by her mentor Busby Berkeley.  The dancers sauntered across the stage in time to the hypnotic throb of Nicky's tenor sax and EJ's trombone.  Rickey had switched out his alto sax for a clarinet, his melody soaring above the steady rhythm.  It was a sultry sort of dance, with the girls all bare feet and pointed toes, and at the end the girls started to spin, which in the costumes would have a dance of the seven veils effect that would cover the three singers climbing into the tent from behind.  The girls dropped into their pose:  Kim and Jen reclining on either side of a kneeling Kat, and on cue the back light came on, silhouetting them against the front curtain.  The platform moved forward, riding on the same sort of mechanism that might be used to rotate a stage, like a cable car.  It started abruptly, jostling them, and Kat thought that tech rehearsal for this number was going to be a bitch. 

Two of the dancers pulled the curtains open at the front as the backlight was dimmed.  The music moved from the heartbeat rhythm to a hot jazz beat featuring Randy's bass and George's piano riffs, and the three began to sing:  _night and stars above that shine so bright, the mystery of their fading light that shines upon our caravan_.  Slowly, they stood, moving off the platform and walking over to the band.  The chorus broke into a real jazz dance during Corey's trumpet solo, shimmying away, and then the three girls finished the song from the dais in front of the band.  It was elaborate, and all didn't go as planned for this first real run through, but it could be done.

"Okay we're going to take a quick break to get the girls back out of costume, but don't wander off," Paula shouted.  The costumed girls went into the back to change, Kelly and Tamyra talking to Paula and the seamstress, Brooke, about what changes might need to be made to allow for easy dancing.  Brooke and Paula then retreated into Paula's office.

"Y'all haven't heard anything, have you?" Tamyra asked, and Kim remembered that she'd been spending time in the same crowd as Sgts. Grigsby, Castro and Lewis, so she was as worried as any of the rest of them.

"Not much," Kim replied.  "I've had a few postcards from Robinson—they're tired, working very hard, spending a lot of time in the air.  But of course he can't say what they're doing."

"Risking their damn necks," Kelly said.

"Well, isn't that what they're here for?" Kat asked.

Jen put up her hand.  "Ladies, please.  The war is happening whether we like it or not."

Kelly sighed, scowling, then stomped out of the dressing room.  "Kelly, wait," Tamyra said, running after her.

Kat shook her head.  "Poor girl.  I wish she'd stop fighting it so hard."

Kim put an arm around Kat.  "She's just scared.  We all are."

"Well, I don't think her attitude is making it any easier for _Cook_!  And we have to think of them now, and the French people."

"Oh, Kat, we all react differently.  I'm sure she's supportive of Cook in her own way."

"It's just—the news is _so bad_."

"Just forget about that and put it all into the song," Jen said.  "We've got a lot of rehearsal ahead of us this week, and recording for the radio show on Wednesday and new songs to learn.  It's plenty to keep your mind off things."

"I guess.  Oh, I just _wish_."

"I know honey," Kim said.  "Me too."

Kelly walked back into the room then, Tamyra just behind her.  "I'm sorry, Kat.  I didn't mean to—"

Kat rushed right over to her and pulled her into a hug.  "I'm sorry, too," she said.

Jen moved closer to Kim and whispered, "This is going to be one long damn war, and we aren't even in it yet."

Kim nodded.  "Ain't that the truth," she said.

* * *

_May 29, 1940_

"Absolutely not," Simon said.  "I won't hear of it."

"I'm not sure why you think you have a vote in this," Ryan replied.

"Because it's damned foolish, is why."

"But Paris is where the story is.  And I can get in; I have contacts—"

"I don't bloody care!  What on _earth_ could you contribute to that story?"

"Now you're just being insulting."

"Ryan."  Simon sighed, then stood up and closed his office door.  Ryan was perched on Simon's desk, his usual pose when he was in the room.  Simon leaned against the door, a few feet away.  "I don't mean to be.  You know how I feel about your reporting.  But there are plenty of journos on the ground in France right now.  And I don't think your audience is as interested in the ordinary Frenchman as they might be about the Englishman."

"They cared about the Spaniards," Ryan pointed out.

"Perhaps, when the war was safely over and you could romanticize it."

Ryan looked away.  "Just because you keep saying that doesn't make it true."

Simon paused again, letting himself cool down, think clearly.  Ryan was fiddling with a paper clip from his desk, nonchalant, but Simon could see the tension in his shoulders.  "That was unfair.  I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Ryan said, not looking up.

"Look, I know you want to be in the thick of things, but doesn't it make more sense to get your NBC man in Paris to bring some regular people into the studio there for you to interview?"

Ryan cocked his head.  "Certainly cheaper, which NBC always likes."

"Yes, I can see that."

"Hey!"

"I only meant," Simon said, moving further into the room, "that they put you up here, rather than giving you your own office.  Anyway, Joel's wife wouldn't like you bringing him into the middle of all that."

Ryan chuckled.  "No, she definitely would _not_; that's why he left Spain with the International Brigades."  He sighed.  "So you really don't want me to go?"

"I don't think you need to go, no."

"Let me see how your idea works, anyway," Ryan said.

Simon smiled and moved closer, putting his hands on Ryan's upper arms.  "That sounds good.  Smoke on it?"

"Sure."  Ryan pulled one out of his jacket pocket and held it for Simon to light.  "Say, your hands are shaking."

"No they're not," Simon replied as he lit Ryan's cigarette, and then his own.

"They are," Ryan insisted, grabbing the one with the lighter.  "Were you—you didn't want me to go, did you?"

"That's what I just said, Ryan," Simon said, looking away and trying to pull his hand back.

"No, I mean, you didn't want _me_ to go."  He grinned.  "You're an old softy, aren't you?"

Simon could feel the blush creep up his cheeks.  "_No_."

"Oh, darling, come here," Ryan said, and pulled him into a kiss.  "You're lovely, you know that?"

"Bit girly," Simon said.

Ryan shrugged.  "S'what you are."

"Well, don't expect me to be at the train station waving goodbye to you with my white handkerchief."

Ryan laughed then.  "I can't even picture that," he said.  He glanced at the clock on the wall.  "Okay, I need to get going.  Following up on a few things to send over to New York tonight.  You're recording the girls, right?"

"Yeah.  See you after?  Or come by the studio when you're done if I'm not."

"Will do."  They kissed again, and then Ryan was out the door.

Simon sunk into his office chair and finished his cigarette.  The words _not again, not again_ kept ringing through his head, and lately he'd been seeing the face of another man, a young man with ginger hair and bright eyes, in every crowd, around every corner.  He wondered if he was going mad, wondered if he'd already gone mad and no one had noticed.

Carly, showing her usual impeccable timing, came into the room then.  "You all right?" she asked.

He rubbed his face and sighed.  "Yeah.  You?  Heard from your airman?"

Carly smiled a little.  "Got a letter yesterday, in fact," she said.  "Tired and frustrated and wanting to get into the fight.  No details of course."

"Of course," Simon said.  "So, what do we have?  Just the girls, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, "and then the show's done."

"Great," he replied, and then looked up.  "Oh, hullo David."

"Have you seen Ryan?" small David asked from where he stood in Simon's office doorway. 

"You just missed him," Simon said.  "But feel free to wait in his office, or here; we're just going to be listening to some songs sent over from America."

He sat in one of the extra chairs, staring at the floor as Simon opened the lid on the record player and turned it on.  "You don't know if he's heard from my uncle?"

"I don't think so," Simon replied.  "I'm sure he would have tried to find you, if he had."

The boy nodded.  "At least before I was flying, and that was something. Now I just feel useless."

"There will be plenty of time for that," Simon said.

"I guess," he replied, picking up the bent paper clip Ryan had been fiddling with.

"What are the other children at school saying?"

"Well, a lot of them aren't really involved," he said.  "But the exiles like me, they want to fight, too.  The older ones, anyway."

"And so you shall," Simon said.  "Lt. Cook said you had the makings of quite a pilot."

"Really?" small David asked, looking up sharply with a shy little smile.  "Gee, he's so fantastic, and he said that about me?"

Simon smiled.  "He was very impressed.  People are, you know.  I hear you're the leader of your little group of friends at school."

He blushed.  "Who told you _that_?"

"Your friend Miss DeGarmo, the last time you brought her to supper."

"I don't know about _leader_," he said, squirming in his seat a little, and Simon marveled at the way the boy switched from seeming very old to very young in a matter of moments.  But perhaps all precocious adolescents were the same.

"This is what I'll say.  Someone needs to stick around and clean up after this war is over, and you're just the right sort of fellow to do that.  So, see, you mustn't rush into this fight too quickly."

"Huh," small David said.  "I didn't think about it that way."  He tapped on the desk for a moment, then said, "So what are these songs?"

"Big band," Carly said.  "Glenn Miller."

"Gosh!  He's the limit!" small David said. 

"Well!" Simon said.

"He's playing a concert in London in a few weeks," Carly said.

Small David turned to Simon, eyes wide.

"Yes, yes," Simon said.  "We'll get you some tickets."

"That'd be swell!" small David said, grinning.  "What's the record?"

"'Tuxedo Junction'," Carly read before putting the platter on the turntable. 

Simon didn't have great affection for this sort of big band music; he preferred the looser feel of colored bandleaders like Duke Ellington, or the hotter jazz of Benny Goodman.  But when he saw small David's eyes light up it was confirmation—this music was what the kids loved, and what the kids loved sold like hot cakes. He'd have to make a study of this.  He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, listening.

* * *

"Don't be discouraged, Kim," Carly said.  "He's just like this.  If he didn't care for your singing he wouldn't even bother, believe me."

"Yeah, well," Kim said, putting out her cigarette, "I like how I sing, and so do Randy and Paula, and I wish Simon would just get with it, you know?"

"I know," Carly said. 

They were sitting in a vacant studio around the corner from where Carly had been recording the three singers.  Kim and Randy had brought in some new songs, and Simon Cowell was still vaguely dissatisfied.  Not that Kim wasn't getting onto the radio; in fact, listeners were calling and requesting some of her recordings.  But Simon was looking for something more, and Kim had no idea how to give it to him.

"Frankly, I have better things to worry about," Kim added.

"But you can't do anything about those things."

"I know.  He's just so—infuriating!"  She smiled a little.  "And not in a good way!"

Carly grinned back.  "You mean, like a certain tall handsome pilot?"

"I miss him," she confessed.  "And it's stupid, because it's not like we were even going together.  We just bought books and talked about them."

"But he's still sending you postcards?"

"Yeah, almost every day.  I think it helps him, to write them."

"Then it's not stupid," Carly said, clutching Kim's hand in her own.  "He's your friend, of course you care about him.  And he appreciates that, I know—I can see it.  And I'm sure these boys need all the support they can get, right?"

"No, you're right.  Thanks.  And what about you?" Kim asked.

"Oh, you know," Carly said.  "They read her mail, so she can't say the things she might.  But it's there; I can feel it.  She's worried for Chris; I don't think she could love him more if he were her brother.  And she's worried for Blake, for Chris's sake.  Really, all her pilots, and she's frustrated that she can't get up there and fight alongside them, which is so like her.  She hates any kind of constraints."  
   
"So I've noticed," Kim said, smiling a bit.  
   
"I know she can seem difficult, but I think it's lovely.  Not that I feel so horribly constrained, but it's refreshing to see someone refusing to make compromises."  
   
"Except to you, of course," Kim said, teasing.  
   
"Well," Carly began, and blushed just a little.  "I wouldn't go that far.  She takes pretty good care of me, when she can, and I do the same, when she lets me."  
   
"And the way she looks at you, Carly."  
   
"I don't know about that, actually," Carly replied.  "She's definitely got an eye for a pretty girl.  Sometimes I have to remind her to focus on me, but that's not so much.  Why, the first time we met she was ogling Giuliana, not that I blame her."  
   
"I think you're every bit as pretty as Giuliana," Kim said loyally.  
   
"Thank you—I'm not, but really, that's fine.  I don't think she'd ever stray; it's all just part of not wanting to be constrained, I think.  So I know she loves me, even if she isn't always looking at me."  
   
"She is clearly very attached to you," Kim said.  "But do you really think she wants to, well I don't know, to settle down with you?  If she's such a free spirit?"  
   
"She says she wants something serious with me, when she's never done that before in her life.  But even if she does, with the war and all—and I'm not sure I'd even be able to live in America.  It's not as though I can be a war bride."  She paused, and sighed, then sat up straighter.  "I'm all right, really.  And work helps."

"Work does help," Kim agreed, sensing that Carly was done with the topic of Amanda.  "Speaking of which."

They went back into the studio, where Randy, Paula and Simon were still going at it, this time over Kat's recording of that song from the Oz movie. Jen was sitting on the piano bench with George Huff, and small David was sitting near Kat, reading a magazine.  Kat was knitting, socks from the look of it.

"I simply feel that if it were smaller at the start, the contrast would be better," Randy was saying.

"And that's fine for the stage," Simon said, "but I'm not sure it comes across on the radio."

"Can't we just try it both ways and then decide?" Paula asked, her arms flailing about.  "Instead of arguing in this not-real way?"

Before either of them could answer, Ryan poked his head in.  "Oh, here you are," he said, and walked in, Joel and Giuliana close behind him.  "You'll want to hear this."  He turned on the monitor in the room, so the live signal of BBC radio played through the speakers.

"The Royal Navy is sending out a call for all seaworthy ships, of any size, particularly any merchant ships.  Please notify your Civil Defense Officer.  In the main news, fighting continued in northern France today …" Ryan turned the speakers back down.

Kim was confused—ships?  But Simon seemed to understand. 

"So, it's evacuation?" he asked.

Ryan nodded.  "Dunkirk.  It'll be out in the next day or two, but the British Army is pulling everyone out, and the RAF has moved to covering the evacuation from the air."

"Well that's it, then," Simon said.  He lit a cigarette.  "You know, I make as much sport of the French as the next fellow but I never thought they'd collapse so quickly."

"DeGaulle is only one man," Ryan said.

"They're pulling everyone out of _France_?" Kat asked.

"Yes," Ryan replied.

"Oh no, after Belgium and the Netherlands, this?" she continued, and Kim remembered that Kat was still working with Rabbi Yamin to help bring Jewish children out of harm's way, a job that had become much more difficult in the last few weeks.  "But why?"

"They're losing," small David said, and everyone turned to him, surprised to hear him speak.  "The foreigners all leave when you're losing.  Happened to us."

"It was a little different," Ryan said gently.  "And they're evacuating French troops, too."

"How can they get all those men out?" Jen asked.

"That's why they're calling for ships," Simon said.

Kat set her knitting down. "I think we should pray for them," she said.

And so they stood around the piano, holding hands—Jen and Paula were on either side of Kim, but she couldn't help seeing that Ryan had put himself between small David and Simon—and Randy said some things, and they all nodded and amen'd and Kim tried to keep her mind on those poor scared soldiers, but no matter what she did, only one face was in her mind.

"God bless you, Anwar Robinson," she whispered.

* * *

_June 14, 1940_

The first few nights after Dunkirk Amanda's sleep was dreamless, the hard sleep of complete exhaustion.  The RAF had been pulling in every pilot and plane they could find, but new ground crew rarely arrived, and already their small RCAF group was relatively experienced.  Poles and Czechs came in with planes that she barely had time to figure out before they needed to get back into the air, desperately trying to keep the Luftwaffe from plunging below the heavy cloud cover to harass the evac ships.  Lt. Cook and Lt. Rogers and the Canadians in the other squadrons felt it more—there were Canadian soldiers to get out of France, too—but all the pilots were edgy and out of sorts, landing just long enough to catch some shut eye and grab a bite before covering the channel again.  It had been a long week at the end of a very long and trying month, and Amanda wasn't sure what they had to show for it, however miraculous the evacuation had been.  As Churchill had said, wars are not won by evacuations.

The days after Dunkirk were spent in a haze of briefings and cram books for the new planes.  It was her life now, plane after plane after damnable new plane; she wished that all the Allied countries had sat down and agreed on _one_ engine design.  She saw lines and wires every time she closed her eyes, but anything was better than Chris, or any one of her pilots, going down because of something she'd missed.  The briefings were interminable, and as a mechanic she didn't even have to go to half of them.  They were waiting, now; she hoped, rather than thought, that France would hold.  But with the Low Countries gone, and Sweden and Portugal pledged to neutrality (not to mention Russia, and she wanted to throttle the necks of every single red she'd known at college with the thought of _that_), France was all that stood between England and Germany.  Frankly, she didn't like those odds.

In the mess hall it usually took both her and Lewis to coax Chris to eat properly, while the entire squadron tried to keep Lewis, who was already fidgety enough, from drinking a drop of coffee. Cigarettes were in ready supply, though chewing gum wasn't, and every man in the group had let out a cheer when Lewis's father, a shopkeeper, sent them a crate full of Juicy Fruit and Doublemint.  Amanda rationed herself to a half a stick a day, often making it last from after lunch until lights out.  Then she'd smoke a last cigarette, thinking about Carly, about the taste of the skin at the nape of her neck, or the base of her spine, or the way she would cling to Amanda's arms.  It wasn't really any one thing about Carly, but all of it together, and the photo she kept tucked in her wallet didn't do her justice.

Tuesday Capt. Johns told them they'd be getting weekend passes, and she'd wanted to go straight to the phones to call Carly, but Chris reminded her that he was the one who should at least start that call, so all three of them were crushed around the mouthpiece, listening to Carly's excited squeals and making plans.  After the trip to Burnshaw the other airmen had taken for granted that Chris was going with the Irish girl who'd seen them off, and Blake with Amanda, and none of them were interested in setting the story straight (so to speak).  Amanda wouldn't have been surprised if Cook had "helped" that rumor along; she hadn't yet gotten around to telling the boys that Robinson knew as well. 

The plan was to go straight to the BBC on Friday and pick up Carly, who was recording the Pyramid singers that morning, for lunch.  Simon wanted to put them up again, which was generous of him, and that first night they were to go back to the Pyramid Club to see the new show.  Amanda liked the Pyramid even if she couldn't dance with Carly, and Carly liked seeing Amanda in uniform anyway.  Carly wanted to go along to the after hours club, as she'd befriended the girl singers and thought her friends would have fun.  And so Robinson and Daughtry and Cook were coming with them to the BBC, if not to lunch.  Amanda found their little posse odd, and fidgeted on the tube ride from the train station to Broadcast House, nervous about giving anything away.  Carly had implied that she'd told two of those girl singers, but how much she'd said Amanda wasn't sure and as usual, she worried about Blake and Chris and what they might show in front of Daughtry and his girl, who were the wild cards in this situation.

When they arrived the recording must have been done because there were a lot of folks piled into Simon Cowell's small office.  Carly, of course, as it was her office too, and Ryan and Joel, who greeted Cook as though they were just pals, and Amanda marveled at their pitch-perfect control.  David Archuleta, whom the airmen had taken to calling "Archie" at Cook's lead, was there too, full of hero-worship for Cook, and so aw-shucks in his manner that it was difficult to remember he wasn't actually American.  And the three singers, Kim, Jen and Kat, plus Kelly who had been trying out for Cowell for a spot on the radio, and their directors Miss Abdul and Mr. Jackson, and the kindly piano player whose name Amanda didn't recall.  Pretty Giuliana had met them in the lobby and showed them in, which Amanda was grateful for because it was hard to keep from ogling the girl at least a little bit, and the walk down the hall let her get it out of her system before she saw Carly.

Of all the people in the room, the only ones who could really greet each other openly as sweethearts were Daughtry and his girl, and they made a bit of a show of it in their usual way.  Robinson wandered over to Kim and Amanda was surprised at how shy he seemed, such a contrast to his behavior on base, and Amanda appreciated again the tough spot that being one of the few colored pilots put him in, even without Hicks sitting around being an ass.  Cook and Kelly were wary, almost diffident, and Amanda remembered Daughtry referring to her as "crazy"—good grief, almost a month ago now—and at the time she'd been annoyed in the feminist sort of way that she never bothered to communicate to any man or most women for that matter.  But seeing them together, she understood the point Daughtry had been making, even if she still objected to his choice of phrase.  The piano player—George! that was his name, George something or other—was looking at Jen with a sort of affectionate respect that reminded Amanda of Chris's father's manner with his wife.  And in the back, so low key as to be unnoticed, Simon and Ryan stood, not too close but close enough, just watching the chaos ensue.

It was downright cacophonous in that room, almost twenty people crammed into a space that would seat ten, perhaps twelve on a good day, standing cheek by jowl and greeting each other excitedly, and on top of that Simon had the monitor that played the live radio feed turned on.  Amanda was just wondering when some angry co-worker or another would shut the door on them, when Simon suddenly shouted, "Quiet!  Quiet!"

The hubbub died down remarkably quickly as they all turned toward him, confused.  He turned up the monitor, and it crackled.  "The road south is crowded now," said a voice in that plummy accent Amanda already recognized as not actually belonging to any real person, but to the BBC itself, "but the government's departure to points south has been swift and efficient, as if it had been planned for some time.  Again, the flash:  Paris has fallen to the advancing German armies.  We go now to our American correspondent, still in Paris."

A more familiar accent:  "Here in Paris all the flags have been lowered, the _tricolour_ replaced by the swastika.  No one is on the street now except for German soldiers and a few dogs …" Simon turned off the monitor with a click.

Amanda had been staring at the speaker, but now she turned, looking slowly around the room.  Carly's eyes were wide and her skin pale, and Amanda yearned to take her into her arms, soothe her the best she could.  Joel was there at least, pulling her against his chest with one arm, and Amanda felt Chris and Blake's arms around her, and mostly she just felt so very fucking tired, like she had never felt in her life.  Would this German war machine just roll over one continent after another?

Paula was the one who broke the stunned silence.  "We should change tonight's show," she said.  "Less dancing, songs about Paris."

"Like a concert," Randy replied.  "And more of the dancers could sing, too, like Kelly here."

"I could help you find some songs," Simon said.

"You know," Ryan added, "we should think about putting this on air, make a special of it."

And the four of them were off, throwing around suggestions between them, with Joel and Carly as well.  Amanda hadn't seen Carly working since that first day they met (when to be honest she hadn't been paying much attention) but it was fascinating to see them all working together like—well, like a well oiled machine.  The rest of the crowd was calling out suggestions for songs, which Giuliana was taking down on her steno pad.  Kat looked a little teary, Daughtry's handkerchief in her hand.  Kim and Jen were all business, but Robinson had taken Kim's hand at some point and neither of them looked interested in letting go.

* * *

In the end, lunch had been at a long table in the BBC cafeteria, twenty of them crowded around like a holiday dinner.  Then they scattered—Randy to round up the band and make simple arrangements of the new songs, Simon to call in some favors regarding the rights fees, Paula and the girls back to the theater to work on the vocals and think about staging and which of the other dancers might also get a solo.  Paula had put the airmen to work doing various things—for example, Lewis could sew, which didn't surprise Ryan much, and had been dispatched to help their seamstress Brooke whip up some gowns for the dancers.  Ryan had grabbed Amanda to help out with production, not only because he was sympathetic but also because he knew it would amuse Simon to watch Carly ordering her around.  By late afternoon they had worked out the technical details for the remote.  Ryan had called New York and secured a time slot on NBC Blue for the recorded show that evening, and Nigel had cleared a spot for the show to be broadcast live on the BBC Forces Programme.  (It was nice to not have to worry about sponsors for the BBC show, though the New York sales boys had done a bang-up job, quickly lining up Ford Motor Company, Coca-Cola, and Bell Telephone.) One of the junior engineers with the BBC, a Russian émigré named Federov, would man the live airing from Broadcast House and the recording for later transmission to New York.  Then Ryan and Simon put their heads together and wrote the script for the opening of the show; they'd just ad lib the rest.

With the help of some of the airmen, Mrs. Studdard brought a large dinner to the Pyramid Club so everyone could continue rehearsing.  Over bean and ham soup, the four of them—Randy, Paula, Simon and Ryan—hashed out the order of the show and the approximate running time, with help from Carly and Joel.  Then Simon said, "Ryan, why don't you host the show?"

"I, well," Ryan said, "I thought we'd do that together?"

"Well, I might introduce you on the radio," Simon said, "but you know I don't like standing up and talking in front of an audience."

"We could do both," Joel suggested.  "We could have Simon at the desk, with a seat for Ryan, and have Ryan moving back and forth between the desk and the stage.  Probably more visually interesting than Ryan standing around in the same place the whole time.  After all, we're broadcasting a stage show, not performing a radio show for an audience."

"Very good idea," Simon said.  "Ryan, you should give that man a raise."

"Ha ha," Ryan replied.  He looked at his watch.  "Well, we have just enough time for the run through," he said.  Randy and Paula rose and started to round up the band and the singers and get them into position, even as Lewis, his mouth full of pins, was chasing after a chorus girl named Gina to hem her costume.

Ryan sat down next to Simon at the desk.  "Ready?" Ryan asked him, smiling.

"As I'll ever be," Simon replied, sneaking a grope under the table.

"That's right," Ryan said, unfazed.  "Get it out of your system now."

"Wouldn't do to be unprofessional on air," Simon said.  "Besides, it will take us _much_ less time to change into our tuxes than all these ladies to put their gowns on.  Awfully nice of Paula to let us use her office as a dressing room."  He winked.

"I am _not_ fucking you in Paula Abdul's office," Ryan said.

Simon looked for all the world like he was reading his script.  "You say that now," he replied.

The run through went without too much incident, Ryan acting as de facto director, keeping all the transitions short and snappy so the show wouldn't run long. It was a challenge to keep Simon from running off at the mouth, but the show wasn't about him; it was about the songs.  Despite his teasing Simon kept his hands (mostly) to himself while they changed, and before long they were letting in the audience.  Once they were in place Ryan came out to introduce Randy and the band, Paula and Simon Fuller, Nigel, and finally his own Simon, and then he explained the special show, particularly that the singers would often be using lyric sheets as they had only learned some of the songs that afternoon.  Then Joel counted down and they were on air.

"Welcome to this special broadcast, co-produced by the BBC and NBC-Blue Network.  I'm Ryan Seacrest."

"I'm Simon Cowell," Simon said.

"We're here this evening to celebrate Paris.  The City of Light may be dark this evening, but we prefer to remember her as we last left her, and as we hope to greet her again.  And to help us do this, through special arrangement, we present a programme of Cole Porter."

Simon took over then, discussing how many of Porter's recent shows had scenes set in or around Paris, "including his recent hit, _DuBarry Was a Lady_, which features our first song, 'Mesdames et Messieurs'."

Ryan spent the rest of the show in that heightened yet detached awareness that he always had for a live show—a skill that, come to think of it, had served him well in Spain.  The girls were pros and moved on and off the stage smoothly, even the chorus girls who were being given a first chance at a solo number.  Carrie Underwood was adorable on "Give Him the Ooh La La" and Kelly shined leading the company through "Do You Want to See Paris?"  Out of the corner of his eye Ryan could see Simon making notes while Tamyra sang "You Don't Know Paree."  Several chorus numbers came in between, and the band played a few numbers associated with Chevalier.  Kat did her star turn on "Let's Fall in Love," and Jen on "If You Like Belles Poitrines."  Kim was last, and even Simon had to approve whole-heartedly with her rendition of "April in Paris," the one non-Porter song they all agreed they must include.  By the time she reached those last lines—_who can I run to? what have you done to my heart?_—there wasn't a dry eye in the house, not even Simon's.

[April in Paris](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/09_April_in_Paris/10755735)

After the broadcast, which of course ended with a rousing rendition of "La Marseillaise" sung by the audience with help from the company, they cleared the floor for dancing and moved backstage.  The airmen, who'd been helping all day, came back as well and they all toasted their efforts, and Paris, and Ryan was looking forward to getting good and drunk and forgetting about the war as best he could until tomorrow, when he caught sight of small David, who'd attended the show with some of his school chums.  But that was no teenager small David was pulling along with him through the backstage crowd; that lean, olive-skinned man with the bright smile was all too familiar.

"Well Ryan," said the man with just a hint of an accent, "you spent all that time seeing me in my element.  At last I have seen you in yours, eh?"

Ryan blinked, just to make sure.  "David Hernandez," he said.  "Thank God you're safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gaslight_ (dir. George Cukor, 1944) is a melodrama starring Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer.
>
>> _"Men," Johns said, "you've fought hard and well, but our mission is about to change. You're to continue to concentrate on the Channel coast, but now we will be protecting a strategic retreat."  
> "The Royal Navy is sending out a call for all seaworthy ships, of any size, particularly any merchant ships. Please notify your Civil Defense Officer. In the main news, fighting continued in northern France today …" _
> 
> From 27 May-4 June 1940, nearly 350,000 British and French troops were evacuated at Dunkirk. The troops, which included the core of the British Army, had been cut off by the Germans and stranded at the coastline. The Royal Navy put out a call for additional civilian ships, and indeed, many small ships such as pleasure cruisers and private fishing boats, provided crucial assistance with the evacuation to England. They ferried men from the beaches to the larger Naval and commercial vessels, and also brought men across the channel themselves. The RAF covered the evacuation, fighting with the Luftwaffe above the heavy cloud cover, then returned to destroy any French ships that had been abandoned, lest they fall into German hands. The success of the evacuation, especially the way that the British people worked together to help, provided a much-needed morale boost in the face of bad news in the Battle of France.
>
>> _" …the government's departure to points south has been swift and efficient, as if it had been planned for some time. Again, the flash: Paris has fallen to the advancing German armies."_
> 
> If you've been watching the dates, you'll see that France fell to the Germans in five weeks. Disorganization, the wrong generals in charge at the start, underestimation of German strength—there are many reasons France fell so quickly, but it's why Homer Simpson could refer to them as "cheese-eating surrender monkeys." Paris would not be liberated until 1944, after the invasion at Normandy. 


	9. The Philadelphia Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of David Hernandez, an evening with Glenn Miller, and the start of what comes next.

_14 June 1940_

Well, one thing Simon could say for him:  David Hernandez looked every inch the dashing Latin hero Ryan had made him out to be.  Hollywood could (and would) do no better.  What surprised Simon was how young he was for having accomplished so much; he couldn't be much older than Ryan himself.  Perhaps precociousness ran in the family. The three of them were speaking rapid Spanish, David and his nephew and Ryan, and just as Simon was thinking he should leave them to it Ryan said, "I'm sorry, where are my manners?  Simon, this is David Hernandez.  David, this is Simon Cowell."

They shook hands, strong but not overly so, and Simon could feel Hernandez's eyes sizing him up.  "David tells me you've been looking after Ryan," the man said.

"Oh, Ryan can look after himself," Simon replied.  "I've just been keeping him company."

Hernandez raised his eyebrows; Simon didn't dare look to Ryan's reaction. And then he was saved by, of all people, Paula.

"Simon—I'm sorry," she said, touching Ryan's arm, "but I need to steal him.  Simon, some people you simply _must_ meet!"

Simon could have kissed her for giving him an honorable retreat.  "Of course. You must have a lot of catching up to do, so I'll leave you to it," he said, smiling.

Ryan put a hand on his shoulder.  "Don't leave without me, okay?"

Simon blinked.  "I won't," he said, locking eyes with Ryan.

The rest of the evening was a blur.  Emotions had already been running high, what with Paris and all, but now Simon was keeping one eye on Ryan, who had sat down at a table with the two Spaniards.  As Paula and Randy had planned only one show that night, to an invitation-only audience, the Pyramid took on the aspect of a large opening night party.  Joel had set up speakers to play the music show on the BBC, so even the band could mingle—not that there was any dancing.  Simon Fuller and Nigel Lythgoe sat at a banquette in the corner and Simon shuddered to think what they could be plotting; if they joined forces they could take over the world—that is, if Hitler weren't already trying to do the same.

Simon did make sure to congratulate all the singers personally.  The new girls were surprisingly strong, and Simon was impressed by the depth of talent Paula and Randy had pulled together.  He found Kim chatting with Carly—they'd become fast friends, which pleased Simon to see, as Carly needed more "just friends" girlfriends.

"Kim, you were fantastic tonight," Simon said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Well, thank you, Simon!" Kim replied.

"Your performance has given me an idea.  I think these melancholy songs suit you very well.  I'm sure between us all we will soon find that song for you that will give you that moment."

"I'm certainly glad about that," she said.

Carly cocked her head, looking at Simon.  "I think I have an idea," she said.

Simon puffed on his cigarette.  "Love to hear it."

She scrunched her nose.  "Not yet.  Let us surprise you with it."

"I do like surprises," Simon said.

Carly laughed.  "No you don't!"

"I like pleasant surprises!" Simon protested.  "Most surprises are unpleasant."

"So you trust me to give you a pleasant surprise?" she asked, eyes twinkling.

"You know I do," Simon said, "even if you're no longer as afraid of me as you should be."

"Fear you?" Carly asked.  "I keep telling Kim what a pushover you really are and then you say such a thing!"

"Pushover for people doing their job," Simon said.  "Perhaps I am."

"And other things," Carly said, tipping her head slightly.

Simon turned and realized she was looking at Ryan.  Simon kept his expression deadpan, but he could feel the traitorous blush creeping up his cheeks.

Carly, of course, just laughed.

* * *

In Hollywood, Ryan Seacrest was known for his unusual dinner parties. Unlike most movieland hosts, Ryan actually cooked the food—often a large pot of pasta or, after he returned from Spain, paella for a crowd.  But they were also distinguished by the odd mix of folks at the table. The guest list nearly always included Joel and his lovely wife, and of course movie people, but also politicians, mobsters, USC students, beach bums, or anyone else Ryan had met and found interesting to talk to.  He loved watching the mixing, how the conversations rose and fell.  Sure, he had the skills to save parties that had gone off course (as did Joel, another reason he was a must-have) but when it worked, it _sang_.  He had that feeling again, now.  Many of the invited guests had departed and Ryan sat at a table watching Richardson and Cook try to keep "Archie" from enlisting the next day; Carly making fast friends with Capt. Johns; Joel, Amanda and Blake having a debate about automobiles; Robinson explaining the difference between east and west coast styles of swing dance to Nigel; and Daughtry extolling the virtues of southern cooking to Simon Fuller.  The singers had gone to change before a planned excursion to an after hours club but some of the other airmen and musicians sat in little clusters around the room.

Ryan lit another cigarette and sighed, and sensing his movement, David Hernandez turned and smiled at him.  That grin still hit him like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, probably always would. Ryan tried to tune back in to whatever David and Simon, who was sitting on the other side of Ryan, were saying.

"I wouldn't want to call him a liar," David said, looking at Ryan, "especially since he made me look so good."

"What?" Ryan replied.  "Lying about what?"

"The war in Spain," Simon said.  "You know, romance and so forth."

"I had to lie about _that_."

"No," Simon said, frowning, "not that.  I meant, about the glories of war."

"Oh," Ryan said, biting his lip to keep from apologizing, which would probably just embarrass Simon more, and make him even grouchier.

"You have to admit, Ryan," Simon went on, "Hemingway doesn't agree with you."

Ryan scowled.  "He's an excellent writer," he replied, "but _Hemingway_ didn't see what I saw."

"To be fair," David said, "Hemingway started out much more of an idealist than Ryan did, even though Ryan was the one who hadn't been in a war before.  I think Ryan came to Spain to see a war, and discovered a cause, but Hemingway came for a cause and discovered a war."

"Well," Simon said, nodding, "that's one way to put it."

Some of the other conversations had ended, and Ryan felt a little fidgety that most of the table was listening to his former and current boyfriends debate his own outlook on war.  He tried to think of a new topic, but Capt. Johns was leaning forward.  "You've just come from France?" he asked.

"Yes," David replied, "just tonight in fact."

"How did it compare to Spain?" Johns asked.  "I understand Franco got a good deal of help from Hitler and Mussolini."

"No comparison," David said.  "We were just the try—how do you say?—the audition.  Even Denmark doesn't compare.  France, this was the real thing, where they showed what they mean to do everywhere."

Another silence, this one quite solemn.  "So, a truly mechanized war then?"  Carly asked.

"The Great War was mechanized," Nigel said, and Ryan thought he must be a veteran as well.

"But this is on a different order altogether," Robinson said.

"Particularly in terms of airpower," Cook added.

"The French could have at least put up a fight," Joel said.

"Fighting the last war," Simon replied.  "Despite Denmark."

"It was a bad strategy," Ryan added.

"And by the time they realized that, it was over," Hernandez said.

"Good thing we have Churchill now," Simon Fuller said.  "_He_ isn't likely to make that mistake."

"No, he very much is not," Simon replied.  "Ah, here are the ladies," he said, suddenly making Ryan feel like they were in some old-fashioned play, where the men went to the library after dinner to have whiskey and cigars while the ladies drank sherry in the drawing room.  At the very least, his tone made it clear that he didn't want to have any more conversation about the war, a topic he'd been avoiding lately, ever since he'd talked Ryan out of going to Paris.  And he was almost skittish about it, in a way that made it difficult for Ryan to even try to work out where all this was coming from; all he had was a vague sense that it had less to do with him and more to do with whatever had happened to Simon during the last war, which was a complete nonstarter as a conversational topic.

The girls were back from changing, anyway, so the remaining folks started to move toward the door.  David was still talking with Johns and Cook and Carly about France, so Ryan hung back a little, keeping Simon with him with just a touch to his arm.

"Problem?" Simon asked.

"I don't think so," Ryan replied.  "Er—we don't have to go out tonight, you know.  We can leave now."

Simon shrugged.  "I'm all right either way," he said.

Ryan tried not to scowl.  "I mean, I know the old flame thing, it can be uncomfortable, but—well, I'm with you.  Just, I want to make sure you know that."

He smiled, a little smug, which under these circumstances Ryan was happy to see.  "I know," he said.  "Well, let's go to the club for a little while, then."

"Good," Ryan said.

As they walked to the door Simon said, "He's a handsome one."

Ryan tried not to smile.  "He is.  And very intelligent.  But you know, more idealistic than difficult."

"You find me difficult?" Simon asked.

"You know you need managing, Simon," Ryan replied.

"And that's a good thing?"

Ryan shrugged.  "I like a challenge."

* * *

The next day Ryan met David for lunch at the Fitzroy pub, not far from Broadcast House.  "So you're leaving tonight?  Already?" Ryan asked.

David nodded.  "Some people in South America are leaning fascist.  Your book helps, now that they've finally translated it, and I'm off to make speeches and tour behind it.  After the Graf Spee, we can't afford to lose Argentina or really, any of those countries."

"Well, with you making speeches, they're sure to see the light."

David smiled ruefully.  "Ah, but that's what you said in Spain," he replied, "and you were wrong."

"No, I wasn't," Ryan countered.  "They just had bigger guns."

"And the church."  They were silent for a moment, eating, and then David said, "I want to thank you for looking after Davidito for me."

"Of course," Ryan said.  "I was happy to.  Anyway it gave me something to do, you know, after."

"Yeah," David said.  "He's doing well.  I admit, after I read your book I was worried that he would get too much attention.  But he doesn't seem to be concerned by it."

"Well, the other kids at school don't care," Ryan said.  "And he's a very focused, determined young man."

David grinned.  "He's his mother's son.  Her speeches were always better than mine; I think that's why they came for her first."  He took a sip of beer and Ryan remembered that it was never easy for David to talk about the death of his sister and her husband, shot execution style by Franco's men while Davidito was at school one day.  "Though that's not something the reader would get from your book."

"What does that mean?" Ryan asked, not looking up.

"When we were in Spain, you used to sing my praises to anyone within earshot," David replied.  "And this book—even Hollywood thinks it's a love story."

"So?  It's all true."

"Yes, but you left out the other bits, like when I would shout down an audience member even if they were making a good point, or that I spend entirely too much money on clothing, or—"

"Or that you snore?" Ryan said, smiling a little.

"No, that isn't a fault," David replied.  "Snoring is very masculine."

"I see," Ryan said, and he'd forgotten how easy it was to flirt with David, how rewarding to make his eyes flash in a way usually reserved for his speeches.

"What is that the soldiers call him?"

Ryan realized he'd lost the thread, someplace.  "Who?"

"Davidito."

"Oh!  Archie.  Lt. Cook started that."

"Archie, yes.  He seems to like that."

"Well, he's been Davidito since he was a baby," Ryan said.  "Archie is a man's name."

"He's becoming quite a man now," David said.  "Flying lessons and all."

"Cook has really taken to him."

"He seems like a good man, that Cook."

"He is," Ryan said.  "He looks after all those airmen as though they're his flock, and he's just pulled Archie into that."

"Mmm."  Another pause, and then:  "So, this Simon?"

At last.  "Yeah?"

David laughed.  "Look at you, you can't help but smile," he teased.

"Well, I like him," Ryan said.

"But do you love him?" David asked.

"I—um—"

"If you do, you should tell him.  The war will come here, and you don't want to leave that unsaid."

"Well—but—"

"And it's not like you, not to say how you feel.  The man I knew made grand pronouncements several times a day."

Ryan scowled.  "I wasn't _that_ bad."

"No, but almost.  Why so shy now?"

"I—don't know," Ryan admitted, a bit lamely.

David cocked his head.  "Joel was right."

Ryan looked up sharply.  "Why?  What did he say to you?" he asked, his eyes narrow.

"Last night, that he'd never seen you like this.  Back in Spain, that you usually loved men you could admire.  At the time I thought he was just flattering me on your behalf but after a while I realized he'd been telling the truth."

"Joel always tells the truth," Ryan said.  "He just makes it sound outrageous, so you can choose to believe him or not."

"Mmm.  Anyway, you haven't been singing his praises.  _Do_ you admire him?"

"Well, yes, I think so," Ryan replied, thinking as he went.  "But for a million small things, like how he's developed Carly into a first-rate producer, or how hard he works to help the singers, or the care he takes with his show, or how he takes care of his mother.  He's a good man."

"So it _is_ different.  Just … don't be stupid, Ryan.  This one isn't an adventurer who'll give you an out as I did."

"An out?"

"When you tire of him.  Or he fails to live up to your admiration of him."

"Oh," Ryan said, not sure what to say.  He felt hot—he was probably blushing—and was tempted to loosen his tie.

David lit a cigarette.  "Not that this describes me."

"No.  But I think—I'm not sure I'll need an out, actually.  I know, I've thought that before, but not like this."  Ryan paused, thinking, then said, "Do you like him?"

David nodded.  "He's smart.  Keeps you on your toes, which you need."

"Thanks," Ryan said, rolling his eyes.

"I mean that.  Complacency does not look good on you."

"Mmm."

"And the man—at least, he can't take his eyes from you."

"Yeah," Ryan said, and he could feel himself blushing, which made David chuckle.

"What has he said to you?"

"Only that he doesn't want anyone else, and he doesn't want me to go to war.  He's been very firm on that point, usually refuses to even discuss it."

"But surely he knows—I mean, Spain and all."

"He must," Ryan said, "but he doesn't like it.  More than the usual—that would be normal—he's very brittle about it, if that's the right word. You heard him going on and on about my romantic view of war, yourself."

"Ah, but he's right about that," David said. 

"What do you mean?"

"This isn't the same as Spain.  There will be no romance if _this_ cause is lost—and then Hitler will be knocking on _your_ door before long."  David took another drink from his pint.  "He isn't as right as he thinks he is," he continued, "but neither are you."

"All right," Ryan replied.

"Just think about it.  So," David said, smirking, "I see Joel didn't get his satisfaction with you after all."

Ryan grinned—knowing David, the story he had to tell would make him like Cook all the more. "Well, actually…"

* * *

_10 July 1940_

Kimberley Locke sat out on her balcony smoking a cigarette.  Inside was pandemonium, as all the singers and dancers rushed to get ready for the concert that evening.  Kim was glad for the large mirror in the wardrobe of the room she shared with Kat and Jen, because she didn't need the bathroom as much.  She'd taken the rollers out of her hair, brushed it through, and put on her makeup all in her room.  For now, she was in her dress but no shoes; she only had two pairs of nice stockings left and didn't want them to get a run before she even got to the hall.

Robinson had sent her a flower for her hair, which she'd just retrieved from the fridge downstairs, violet colored like her dress.  He'd even asked her, specifically, what she was planning to wear so her flower would go, which Kim found adorable.  Not that Robinson went in for the standard romantic gestures, as Daughtry did, but he was attentive in his way.  Mostly, she was looking forward to dancing like she did back home—real swing dancing, not this society fox-trotting that was her duty most nights with various patrons on the floor at the Pyramid Club.  She appreciated the perks of playing in a high-class establishment, and usually just going to the after hours clubs with the musicians and singing the blues, or whatever came to mind, was enough.  But now the weather was finally warm—well, warm for London, not warm for Atlanta or Memphis or even Harlem—and her body wanted to _move_.

Jen came out onto the veranda, and perched on the railing.  "_What_ was I thinking?" she said.

Kim smiled—Jen had been saying the same thing in the same way all week, ever since she agreed to go to the concert with both Rickey and Nicky Smith as escorts.  "Even _you_ can't dance with two men at the same time," Kim said.

Jen turned to look out into the garden.  "Oh, there they are," she said to Kim, and then leaned over and let out a loud wolf-whistle.

"Oh god, _Jen_!" Kim said, putting her head in her hands.

Jen paid her no heed.  "My, my! Look at those handsome men in uniform!"

Kim could hear the men calling up to Jen, so she rose and moved to the railing.  The airmen were looking up at the balcony as they walked to the back door; Robinson waved and she waved back. 

"Did that humdinger of a whistle come from you, Miss Locke?" Cook asked, barely keeping a straight face.

"No it did not," she answered, "and you know it."

He laughed as he led the other men into the house.

Their leave-taking was raucous as usual.  Other than Jen, the girls with escorts in the band had already left, as had Paula, and the Studdards were just behind them.  Kim couldn't think of anyone who _wasn't_ going.  Even the men from the other "Yank" squadron who didn't frequent the Pyramid would be there.  As Sgt. Overmyer told it, some of them just didn't care for supper clubs, but others were the ones who'd caused trouble for the colored airmen, and Kim hoped there'd be no trouble at the show.

When they arrived at the hall a local swing band was playing—Kim recognized some of the musicians from the after hours club.  Packs of teenagers dominated the dance floor; Kim saw small David in the center of one cluster with the Italian girl he'd been going with.  They certainly looked like they attended an international school; there was a boy that must have been from Gandhi's India, a tall pale one with red hair, and a smaller blond with glasses.  One of the girls looked to be from somewhere in the south Pacific, and played up that fact with a tropical flower in her hair.  Two of the girls were colored, though given the school they attended, they were more likely to be from Africa than Alabama.

Their elders were around the fringes of the large room, having cocktails and saving their energy for the main event.  Carly and Giuliana walked up to Kim and Robinson, Carly in a pretty blue dress.  When Kim complimented her she said, "Giuliana went shopping with me!  Apparently I can't be trusted to dress myself for such occasions!"

"And how does your beau like it?" Kim asked.

Carly blushed.  "Just fine, thank you," she said.  "Here, they're just over in the corner."

They spent the rest of the time before the show in pleasant conversation with Giuliana and her Bill, Overmyer and Lewis, and Richardson.  Carly pointed out Ryan and Simon up in the VIP balcony with some other folks from the BBC as well as Paula and Randy.  "I must admit," Overmyer said, "I can't picture Mr. Cowell doing the Lindy Hop!"

"No," Kim said, "but Paula is going to be on that floor before it's all over, mark my words!  And until then she'll be dancing up there, in front of her seat, as she usually does."

The kids spotted Glenn Miller first, as he hopped onto the stage, and a roar came up from the crowd.  Miller was a tall bespectacled man, and he smiled and waved at the now-packed house.  "Did you come here to dance?" he asked.

They roared "Yes!" and Kim and Robinson joined right in.

"Well!" he said.  "With no further delay!"  He turned to the band and counted off, and the saxophones rose as one and played the familiar opening of his big hit of a few years before, "In the Mood."  The crowd shouted again, and then got to dancing.  Kim hadn't been swing dancing since she arrived in London, and she was struck by how different the style was than even the white kids back in the States—more upright, more rigid, more like formal ballroom dancing.  Kim and Robinson stood and clapped along for a few bars, and then Robinson leaned over and said, "I think we should show these Brits 'how we do', uptown."

Kim turned.  "I agree!"

Robinson moved Kim out onto the floor, steering her around the swing dancing couples until they found a space.  They started easy, Kim getting used to how Robinson led—just like the more formal foxtrot, actually, with a light but steady hand.  Then he caught her glance and winked, and they started _really_ dancing,  knees bent low, legs as loose as rubber bands, Robinson pulling and pushing Kim around him, and Kim spinning around before grabbing his hand again.  It was like flying, this kind of dancing, even when your feet didn't leave the ground. The song ended and while everyone was clapping the band headed straight into another swing song. 

Jen and Rickey weren't far away from them, and Nicky was dancing with one of the schoolgirls, a rather tall and sturdy one who by the way she moved might have been from the States after all—and from her grin was certainly enjoying herself.  Anyone else in the band and Kim would have warned the girl away, but Nicky was too caught up in Jen, and just too darn nice, to take advantage of a teenaged girl.  Before long there was quite a little set of them dancing in that Harlem style, between the colored airmen and the boys in the band, and the Brits around them were watching and copying them, and Kim thought picking up the style pretty quickly. 

[Tuxedo Junction](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Tuxedo_Junction/2736370)

Miller gave them a break then with the mid-tempo "Tuxedo Junction", and as would often happen the couples who didn't care to dance too close cleared the floor and the older folks came on.  Robinson, though, didn't even move to leave, but instead pulled Kim into his arms, into that informal slow dance that wasn't much more than a hug-and-shuffle, like the later stages of a dance marathon.  Kim looked around, knowing this was a particular favorite of the Studdards, and saw them near the edge of the floor, holding each other tight and probably singing to each other.  So she was a little surprised when Robinson leaned in to do the same:

> _Way down south in Birmingham  
> I mean south in Alabam'  
> There's an old place where people go  
> To dance the night away_

Kim pulled back, and Robinson grinned.  His warm tenor suited him, but it had never occurred to Kim that he could sing, and sing well.  So she joined in:

> _It's a junction where the town folks meet  
> At each function in a tux they greet you_

Their voices blended fairly well, and Kim thought she would make a point from now on to encourage this singing thing from Robinson.  But before she could think about it too much, Miller sped up again, and the floor erupted in swing dancing of all kinds.  They called out "Pennsylvania six-five thousand!" along with the band, and for "Bugle Call Rag" Miller called out to the American servicemen in particular, and Kim cheered along with them.  By then most of the other airmen had found their way to the floor—to one side, Lewis was shooting Overmyer through his legs, and to the other Joel McHale was tossing Gina into the air like she was a doll.  Castro and Rogers danced with many of the chorus girls, as did Ryan Seacrest, and though his style was quite comic he acquitted himself well.  Kat and Daughtry, of course, only hit the floor for the slower songs.

It was during one of those ballads—"Midnight Serenade"—that Kim turned and saw Richardson dancing with Carly, and Lewis with Overmyer, though the two couples were very close.  She couldn't help but sigh.

"I wish they could dance with the ones _they_ really love," Robinson whispered.

Kim didn't move for a moment, not believing what she'd heard.  She looked up.  "What did you say?" she asked.

Robinson smiled.  "You know what I said.  You're a friend of Miss Hennessey.  Well, I'm a friend of Sgt. Overmyer."

"Oh," Kim replied, not sure what to say to that.

"Come on," Robinson said, "we can sit the rest of this one out."  He led her off the floor, where they ran into Ryan, who urged them to accompany him to the VIP lounge in the balcony.  As so often happened when she was with Robinson, Kim wanted to get him alone to ask him what he'd meant, but her escort accepted Ryan's invitation, and upstairs they went.

Ryan settled into a chair next to Simon Cowell, who seemed to be the only one remaining on the balcony, the others having taken to the dance floor, and Kim wondered if that was why Ryan had made a beeline up the stairs.  She and Robinson sat and looked out over the floor, and as Ryan and Simon seemed to be having their own conversation, she turned to Robinson.

"Now, I'm in show business," Kim said, "so I've been around plenty of, um, _that_ sort, but you don't seem to be upset by it."

"I'll tell you a story, Miss Locke," he began.  "Back in Calgary, up in Canada where we were training, some of the other colored pilots washed out.  No time to learn how to fly well—they needed us to hit the ground running, or I should say, the sky.  And when it was just Rogers and me, and Grigsby on the ground, there were going to be some problems.  Not enough for our own squadron, you see.  So they talked to the other pilots to see if they had trouble with it and of course some did.  I expected Richardson to be one of them, him being the big house type and all.  But he stood up in that meeting and he said sure, he'd never thought a Negro could fly a plane as well as a white man, but that Rogers and I were as good as any of them, and he'd be glad to fly with either of us beside him, and he's kept saying that ever since.  And that was the end of that.  So when I was taking a walk a week or so later and happened to see Richardson go into one of the sheds on the landing strip, and Lewis follow him in a few minutes later, well, I reckoned if he could be broad-minded enough to pay no mind to a Negro pilot, I could do the same for a queer pilot.  Besides, he's one of the best pilots we have.  Lewis too, but Richardson's in my flight."

"Your flight?" Kim asked.

"They break us up into groups of three planes for each mission," Robinson explained, "and my flight is Richardson and Daughtry.  Lewis and Rogers are in Lt. Cook's flight."

"By your admiration," she said, "I presume Richardson is in charge of your flight?"

"Um, no," he said, looking away, "that would be me."

"Well," Kim said, smiling at his shyness but deciding not to tease him about it, "I'm glad you feel that way about it.  I didn't like having a secret between us."

Robinson looked up then, and smiled back, and seemed about to say something when Ryan said, "Oh my god, it's Paula!"

The four of them stood up at the railing to see the floor better, and sure enough, Paula was on the floor, and the crowd had pushed back to give her and her partner room.  But that partner wasn't her fiance Mr. Fuller, but a blond man.  "Who is that with her?" Kim asked.

"Is that Nigel Lythgoe?" Robinson asked.

"Indeed it is," Simon said, grinning around his cigarette. As Kim and Ryan looked back down on the floor in shock, Simon explained, "Back in his day, he won a national cakewalk contest—I was a boy, it was in all the papers, must have been around 1904?  Something like that.  He was quite the dancer.  Toured around Europe and America with Vernon and Irene Castle."

"Wow," Kim said.  Clearly Nigel knew the current dances as well, as he could keep up with Paula, and they made quite a show, twirling and sliding—Nigel even tossed Paula into the air at one point. 

"Never thought I'd see that," Ryan said as the dance ended.

"And now for our last number"—at this a groan went up from the crowd, and Miller smiled—"we present our newest song, and to help us tonight a special guest that you all know quite well, Miss Vera Lynn!"

The audience roared as the British singer took the stage, and then the song started, slow, clarinets playing very high, like a bird calling.  Robinson moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her, and they swayed to the music as Miss Lynn sang:  _when you turned and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._

Kim closed her eyes and relaxed against Robinson.  She didn't care that it was the lovely song, rather than their feelings—she wanted to keep that moment with her forever.

But the song ended, and she took a breath and walked out of Robinson's arms.  Miller's band then played three songs in quick succession:  "La Marseillaise," which still made Kim tear up; "The Star Spangled Banner," which Kim, Ryan and Robinson sang loudly, hands on hearts; and finally in honor of their hosts, "God Save the King."

Some of the others were heading out to various after hours clubs but Kim begged off; she'd had enough of being in a crowd.  Robinson escorted Kim on the rather long walk back to the house. The warm night air furthered their thoughtful mood, and they strolled in companionable silence. By the time they'd arrived at her door Kim had come to a decision.  "Wait here," she said, leaving him in the sitting room as she ran upstairs.

Robinson, ever the gentleman, rose as she came back into the room. 

"I want you to have this," she said, holding out the small black cat charm she'd bought years ago, after college, when she left Memphis for New York and a singing career.  "For luck."

"Well," Robinson said.  He took the charm and held it in the palm of his hand.

"Please," Kim replied.

He reached into his shirt for a moment, and then pulled out a chain with a cross pendant.  "Don't suppose the good Lord would mind a little help," he said, putting the cat next to the cross.  "I just won't tell Mama."  He smiled at Kim as he refastened the chain around his neck, now outside of his clothes.  "There," he said.  "That'll suit me just fine."  He looked at her, and seemed about to say something else, and then Kim heard Cook and Kelly laughing as they neared the little entryway outside the kitchen. 

Cook was saying good night, and Kim could see by the shadows through the curtains they they were kissing.  When they pulled apart he added, "Don't know when we'll be back in town.  The Germans could come on at any time."

"Yeah," Kelly replied.  "I guess you shouldn't start anything, then."

"I didn't say that," Cook said.

"No, I did," Kelly said, and extended her hand.  "Good luck, Lt. Cook."

"Um, thanks," Cook said, and shook her hand.

Kelly turned and came in, stopping short when she saw Kim and Robinson.  "Good luck to you too," she said, and then ran upstairs.

Cook was standing in the door.  "That girl," he said, shaking his head.  "I just don't get it."  He shrugged.  "Well, guess I'll see what McHale is up to," he said.

Robinson smiled at Kim.  "I should let you go," he said.  "You have a show to do tomorrow."  He kissed her cheek.  "Thank you for the charm."

"Be safe, Robinson," Kim said.

"I will," he replied, and walked away.

Kim turned to go upstairs and found Kelly sitting on one of the steps.  "I hate this war," she said, scowling.

"We all do," Kim replied.  "But we'll make it through.  Cook will make it too, I expect."

"And what if he does?" she asked.  "If it doesn't kill a man, it just—it _ruins_ him!" she said, and stormed up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her.

Kim went down to the kitchen and poured some milk into a pan.  The evening had been fun, but just a little too much for her nerves.  A cup of cocoa and Austen, though, and she might get to sleep before daybreak.

* * *

Blake Lewis laid his head back against the seat of the cab and hummed, and Amanda recognized the tune as the new one Miller had played to close the concert.  "Where is Berkeley Square, anyhow?" he asked.

"It's in Westminster," Carly answered.  "Very posh.  Many peers have their town houses there."

"Peers?"

Carly smiled.  "Titles.  You know, aristos."

He turned to Chris.  "Don't even tell me."

Chris, as usual, blushed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Yeah," he replied, "that's where our town house is."

Blake smiled a little, shaking his head.  It wasn't long before the cab pulled up at Simon's address—he was spending the night with Ryan and had once again generously lent his own flat to the two couples.  The airmen were on only a 24-hour furlough; patrols of the channel were increasing to protect the convoys, but both the British and American governments had wanted them to attend the concert for publicity's sake, to reinforce the image of friendship of the two countries.  Amanda didn't much like being a symbol, but she and Richardson had been asked to pose for a picture or two with Miller after the concert, and had obliged; the press man thought that the American grandson of a British peer and his childhood friend the lady mechanic would make for good copy.  Amanda did get an autograph from Miller, which she was going to send home to her little brother first thing when she got back to base. 

For now, though, she just wanted to be alone with Carly.  Their time together had been so limited since the fall of France, and Amanda thought she'd go crazy.  It was the first time since college that she'd attempted to have a real girlfriend, and even back then she'd been half-hearted.  But Carly was worth holding on to, and not just because she was gorgeous, but because she just sort of _fit_ into that space marked "girlfriend."

And a very nice space it was, too; so nice that after they'd made love Amanda had curled into Carly's arms and stared out the window at the moon.  "I love this," she sighed.  
   
"This what?  The moon?  The posh flat?  The orgasm I just gave you?" Carly asked, smiling.  
   
Amanda turned to look at her.  "Jeez, last time I try to be romantic!"  
   
She could feel Carly chuckling.  "You should know by now that fine phrases don't work on me," she replied.  "That's why I love you; you're straight forward."   
   
Amanda pushed up just a bit, resting her hands on Carly's shoulders.  "Was there a time when fine phrases worked on you?  Have you become level-headed through hard experience, or were you just born that way?"  
   
"Mostly the latter," she replied, "but of course I've been lied to.  Who hasn't?"  
   
"I'd never lie to you," Amanda said.  
   
"I know."  
   
Amanda lay back down, and Carly resumed stroking her hair.  "I wish I could have danced with you tonight."  
   
"Me too.  Chris is taller than I'm used to."  
   
"I'm serious!"  
   
"So am I," Carly replied.  "But what can we do about it?"  
   
"We can _talk_ about it, at least!"  
   
"Okay, then talk."  
   
Amanda sighed, and tried to pull her thoughts together in some non-mushy way.  "I want to dance with you at concerts.  I want to take you home to meet Mother and Dad.  I want to ride horses with you in Virginia and in Ireland.  I want to find a little home for us and bring you to it.  I want to make you my war bride.  I want to see little children running around with your pretty skin."  She stopped, and ran a finger along Carly's stomach.  
   
"Feel better now?" Carly asked.  
   
"Yes, actually."  
   
Carly turned so she was looking into Amanda's eyes.  "I want those things too.  You know that, right?"  
   
Amanda smiled.  "Yes."  
   
Carly cupped Amanda's cheek in her other hand.  "All I want is you, Amanda."  
   
"Well," Amanda said, "I can give you that."  She leaned forward and kissed Carly, her hand moving up to Carly's breasts.  "You cold?" Amanda asked, rolling the hard nipple between her fingers.  
   
"Not in the least," Carly said, and kissed her again.  
   
After this second go-round, Amanda fell into a deep sleep, though she had vivid dreams of bells ringing, church bells and cow bells, louder and louder until she felt a hand on her shoulder, waking her up.

"What?" she said, sitting up with a start, and glanced at the clock—it was only 5am.

Chris stood over them, his hair wild, trousers in his hands.  "We gotta go," he said.  "Cook just called.  Those damned Krauts bombed our base."

"Amanda?" Carly asked sleepily.

"Come on, baby," she replied, getting out of bed.

They dressed and managed to find a cab, even at that early hour, and made their way to Ryan's flat as quickly as they could.  They picked up Cook and dropped off Carly into McHale's comforting arms—Amanda and Carly sneaked a last kiss in the entryway of Ryan's building before Amanda hopped back into the cab and they sped away to Paddington.

"They got a few planes," Cook said, "but luckily no men.  Not sure we can spare the planes either, though."

"Damn," Chris said, shaking his head.  "So it's starting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Philadelphia Story_ (dir. George Cukor, 1940) is a romantic comedy starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.
> 
> This week's notes are all about dance! [Here are Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers doing the "Castle Walk" in their biopic about Vernon and Irene Castle](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xILFH-OdAWw). The Castles were huge in the 1910s; Irene Castle was a big fashion trendsetter (including bobbed hair) and they introduced many American dances to Europe, and popularized the Fox Trot.
> 
> [The fox trot is the more formal dance that our pals have been doing at the Pyramid Club and at the gay club Ryan and Simon have been going to](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyOWM6S1ITA). Simon, in particular, would prefer the fox trot.
> 
> [This is the lindy hop, which came out of Harlem in the early 1930s](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNv7ivtkxW8). "Lindy" refers to Lindbergh's flight across the Atlantic in 1927. As you can see, it's a much more youthful, informal dance, and hence a relief for Kim who's been fox trotting all this time.
> 
> Last but not least, [here's a playlist with the music from the Glenn Miller concert](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/playlist/Glenn_Miller_Concert/7868352).


	10. Contesting Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War comes to London.

_12 July 1940_

The next few weeks went by in a haze.  Planes limped back from patrols and dogfights damaged (if they were lucky) and needed to get back in the air as soon as possible.  Amanda, Castro and Grigsby became known around the base for the stringency of their pre-flight checklists.  But Amanda was damned if she'd let Chris, or Blake, or any of her pilots get into a plane that wasn't in tip top shape.  And then there were the visits from the Germans, when the ground crews would high tail it into the shelters, having been told in no uncertain terms by Capt. Johns that new planes could be built but new mechanics were hard to find.  The three sergeants often helped some of the other crews while their own pilots were in the air, and vice versa, and Amanda was learning even more techniques from her fellow mechanics than she had in training.  Capt. Johns's group was confined to air defense over Britain rather than the channel patrols, so their losses were few—none of the Americans so far—but they were getting pretty banged up by the German fighter planes that escorted the bombers.

Sometimes the grease became so embedded in her hands that no soap could get her clean, and Amanda was secretly glad that her mother couldn't see her only daughter in such a state.  After all, rolling bandages to help out the war effort was one thing, as she'd said in her most recent letter, but fixing the engines of planes was quite another.  Amanda had written back that they each owed the war effort their highest skills, and this was hers.  Carly wrote often, little cheerful letters designed to bring Amanda a smile, and they usually succeeded.  At this point even hearing Simon's radio show was comforting, knowing that Carly was sitting in the booth near him.

July became August without Amanda much noticing, especially when she was working so hard, going from mission to mission sustained mostly by twinkies, memories, and letters from Carly.  Capt. Johns talked in his briefings about how they were the last line to keep Hitler from getting all of Europe, and Amanda didn't know how much harder anyone could work but she certainly tried.  It seemed pretty dire—the Luftwaffe just kept coming and coming, and while those British factories were putting out planes as quick as they could, and more were arriving from America all the time, who didn't know of the inexhaustible industry of Germany?  Chris and Blake were holding up under the pressure pretty well, though she could sense the tension in each of them when the other was still out on his mission, and wondered if it would be the strain of the secrecy, rather than the strain of battle, that would finally break them.

And then, in late August, she learned what it was to be in their shoes:  the Germans had bombed London.

* * *

_16 September 1940_

The government had said that the 24 August bombing had been an error, and Simon had been inclined to agree with them.  The RAF were sent over to Berlin and showed them what for, and things were quiet after that.  That would teach Hitler to send his planes flying over their city.

But two weeks later, there was another bombing—and the next night another, and another, and another, until the nights all blurred into each other, the sound of explosions and the smell of smoke drifting through the early autumn air.  There was still some nightlife carrying on in London in spite of the nightly raids—really, almost in defiance of them—though the bright lights of Picadilly were of course darkened for the duration.  The BBC had its own shelter, but the one closest to Simon's flat was the Tube station, and when the sirens sounded, off they went underground.  By unspoken agreement Simon and Ryan were spending every night together now, back and forth between the two flats, and Carly was in Ryan's flat more often than not as Joel seemed to calm her fears.  Londoners reacted as Simon would have predicted, by just getting on with things and giving help and comfort where they could.

In the mornings the two radio teams went around town gathering information for the news broadcasts, which spared more reporters to head to Birmingham and the other northern port and industrial cities which were also being attacked almost nightly.  It was a grim business, all this destruction, and Simon had to swallow his anger to do his job because really, how dare the Krauts think they could bomb Britain into submission?  One night Ryan brought Simon to a supper gathering of the American reporters, and Simon had the chance to talk to Ed Murrow, he of the rooftop broadcasts to America, whom Ryan had met when he was traveling through Europe after the end of the war in Spain.  Simon still couldn't picture Ryan as anything other than an entertainment reporter, the book notwithstanding, and to his eye Ryan didn't seem to be the same as these hardened foreign correspondents, yet the other men treated him like one of their own.  Clearly, the matter required further thought.

But Simon wasn't inclined to give it any consideration at this time.  It was all he could do to keep his mind from spinning in endless worry.  War, again.  Soldiers, again, boys far too young to know what they were doing, boys not unlike small David but with ginger hair and freckles.  Too many freckled ginger-haired soldiers in England now-a-days; running into doppelgangers of a long-since-dead friend in every train station was downright eerie, and sometimes he wondered if it was his mind playing tricks on him.  Boys who wanted to get their licks in before the war was over, who had absorbed romantic notions of war from Cambridge classrooms and public school readings of Tennyson and lectures about duty to King and Empire, were boys that came home in boxes.  Simon had had no such notions—had in fact found the entire idea of armed conflict rather silly and wasn't sure why it couldn't be settled over a game of cards or similar—and had come home safe and sound.  He'd thought after the Great War that the romantic notions were put away, and mostly they were; the young men he'd met were more grimly determined than gung-ho.  Then again, they'd told him it was the war to end all war, and as Ryan would say, if you believe that I have a bridge for sale in Brooklyn that might interest you.  Bravery and romance got a man killed.  The problem was, for all their conversations and all his teasing he still wasn't sure where Ryan's romantic notions began and ended, and David Hernandez's brief visit had confused the matter even further. 

Simon and Ryan were sitting in his living room, relaxing with some cognac and soft music on the reel-to-reel, when they heard the siren.  It was routine by now—check pockets for keys, identification, press credentials, and notebook; make sure one has a bit of cash just in case; grab the gas masks by the door and turn out the light.  Not much of a crowd shuffling toward the Tube station that night, and the faces were becoming more familiar.  Unfortunate way to get to know the neighbors, but at least that was some kind of bright side.   As they walked down the stairs he could already hear the distant sound of engines, and they all hustled to get well in and make room for more.  He and Ryan ended up in a tiny alcove between one of the support posts and the end wall of the station, and now all they could do was sit and wait.

The drone of the planes was dampened a bit by their location, but they were still louder than they'd ever been.  There was a shaking in the ground above them, and loose pebbles fell to the floor.  Another rumble, this time a bit louder and stronger, and the lamps were set to swinging.  The station was remarkably quiet for how full it was, silent but for the odd cough, a child's snuffle, a mother or father's comforting murmur.  The rumbles all ran together now, and very close, and they all looked up at the ceiling—silly really, for what did they think they could see?—as they realized that it was their own little square in for it that night.

Quite a loud and sudden crash made everyone jump and then the officer announced that they were turning the lamps off for safety, but emergency lighting would lead them out if necessary, and the room was plunged into near-total darkness.  Ryan moved closer then, emboldened by the lack of light, and Simon pulled him into his arms and further into the little alcove.  Even by the dim lights every 20 feet or so, no one could see them.  Ryan's hand slid up Simon's arm, across his chest, along his neck, and Simon relaxed into his touch, allowing him to pull them together into a kiss. Another explosion but Simon just absorbed it, for him and for Ryan, and sighed into his mouth.  He was hungry for it, hungry for the touch and taste of the man in his arms.   In retrospect he would find the whole thing absurd but in the moment it seemed entirely appropriate to snog the man he loved while bombs fell over their heads. 

Between the two of them was just enough awareness not to let it get out of hand, even though these kisses were less a prelude than a thing in themselves, a comfort, a lifeline, maybe even a small act of defiance.  Certainly Hitler, even with all his ridiculous posturing, was no fan of homosexuals, what with all the happy Aryan family propaganda.  Kissing a man during an air raid was the closest Simon could get to making a rude gesture in the Führer's face.  Ryan wasn't shaking now, not even a tremble, solid as a rock in his arms, and Simon relaxed and held on, humbled before the awesome truth of what was happening, inside their shelter and directly above them.

Suddenly he was aware of a silence, and pulled back, letting Ryan tuck into his neck while he listened.  "I think—" he began in a whisper, but then the all-clear sounded.  He and Ryan quickly pushed apart to a decent distance before the lights were turned back on, though that had less to do with shame than propriety; he doubted snogging sessions were the done thing in air raid shelters.  They were escorted from the station via a different entrance, and turning back toward Simon's square saw that one building had been set ablaze.  Not his, but just a few doors down the street.  Simon sighed.

"Mine tonight?" Ryan asked.

"Yours tonight," Simon replied.

* * *

_24 September 1940_

Then there was the horrible morning when Giuliana wasn't there when they got into the office.  It was about a week after Simon's square was targeted, and at the weekend he and Ryan had run small David up to Cambridge for his first year.  The young man seemed to be temporarily diverted from his wishes to enlist by his summer spent touring South America with his uncle and giving speeches.  He'd then stayed at Simon's family home in the country for two weeks; Mama Cowell was as charmed by small David as all adults were, and was sorry to see him go.  "Just you wait," Simon had said to him, "she'll be sending you sweets in the post."  
   
As Simon's gas and water were back on he and Ryan had stayed at his flat and come into work together.  Carly and Joel followed shortly thereafter.  But 10am came and went and no Giuliana, and her phone line at home was dead.

Carly jumped each time the phone rang, while Ryan was trying to work out whether Giuliana's neighborhood had been hit or not; reports were unclear about a raid in the very early morning hours.  Simon paced, and tapped, and smoked, almost vibrating in his impotent frustration.  Joel was completely silent, making the morning even more eerie. 

And then at last, at 11, her voice at the door:  "Oh, Mr. Cowell, I am so sorry."

Simon looked up, sharp, then jumped up.  "Sorry?  My god, Giuliana, we're just thankful you're all right."

The others had got up as well, hugging her and guiding her to a chair, and Joel put a cup of tea in her hand.  Only those who knew her well could see how tired and disheveled she looked, as she was normally so perfectly turned out.  But one of the combs holding her hair was slightly askew, her dress was a little limp, and her bag and shoes didn't match.

"Is everyone—" Carly began.

"Oh yes," Giuliana said, waving her hand.  "We were in the shelter.  Our building was hit—the roof on one side—and we don't seem to have a dining room anymore.  Papa said one it's one good result from having to sell our things before we left Italy:  no china to be broken."  Carly took her hand and Giuliana smiled at her sadly.  "They turned off the phone and gas and we can't go back until tomorrow, so we went to a hotel to bathe and they sponged my dress and here I am."  She pushed back a stray lock of hair.  "And I'm going to marry Bill Rancic."

The others, who had all been leaning forward as she told her story, sat back a little at the news.  Ryan looked up at Simon, who seemed just as surprised. 

"He asked you?" Carly said.

"He asked me months ago," Giuliana said, staring out the window over Simon's shoulder.  "I didn't want to leave Papa alone, so I put him off.  But what is the use now in being here?  For this we could have stayed in Napoli."

"And your father?" Joel asked. 

"He'll come to America with us.  He can sew anyplace, he says.  Bill took him to the embassy today to see about papers."  She sighed, shaking her head.

"When will you be married?" Carly asked.

"In a month or so.  Bill's company wants him to come back to Chicago in December, and Papa wants time to have a wedding dress made for me."

"Giuliana, look at me," Simon said.  "Do you love Bill?  Is this what you really want?"

She blinked.  "It's always been what I wanted.  Not like this—but yes, I love him."

They were all quiet for a moment, and then Ryan said, "Maybe it doesn't matter how it happens."

Giuliana smiled.  "Maybe it doesn't."

"Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Simon said.  "I'm going to throw you a party.  You, and our newly eloped Miss Paula.  I think we need a nice celebration about now.  Say, in a month?  Perhaps we can get Capt. Johns to let some of those airmen into the city."  He looked at Carly, who blushed.  "But for now, work is the thing, I think."

They all stood—Carly had some things to do in the studio before the singers came in the next day, and Joel and Giuliana wandered off as well, but Simon touched Ryan's arm, holding him back, and pushed the door closed. 

"What?" Ryan asked.

"Still think this is the same as Spain?" Simon asked.

Ryan shook his head.  "No," he replied, and Simon nodded, with just a little less satisfaction than he usually had when he was right, and Ryan was thankful for that.  Though that didn't stop him from asking, "Still think this is the same as the Great War?"

Simon pulled back, eyes wide; he clearly hadn't expected that reply.  "No," he said.  "No, I don't."

Ryan nodded.  Simon didn't like admitting when he was wrong, but he always was willing to, and Ryan felt he should be rewarded for that; many men with egos as large as Simon's were much more reluctant. "Thank you," he said, giving him a peck.

Simon made no reply but his smile was pleased rather than smug, and Ryan felt even happier.  "Run along now," he said, patting Ryan on the behind before opening the office door and sending him on his way.

Back in his own office, Ryan saw Joel reading a letter and smiling, but he didn't recognize the handwriting.  "Is that from Cook?"

"Yeah," Joel said. 

Ryan sat down behind his own desk.  "I'm glad he wrote.  I know you've been worried about him."

Joel shrugged.  "I like the fella.  All of him, not just his dick and his tongue."

"I know," Ryan said.

"I'm not in love with him, but I figure one more person caring about him can't hurt."

Ryan thought of the folks he'd met and managed to gather around him, of Joel and Davids big and small, of Giuliana and her father and Carly and her mechanic, of the girls in the show and the boys at the base, of Randy, and Paula and her new husband, and Simon who would loom large over all of them even if Ryan wasn't in love with him.  "Nope," he replied, "caring about people doesn't hurt a bit."

* * *

_25 September 1940_

Kat was running late as usual; Kim thought her diva behavior would be much worse to deal with if she wasn't so, well, _genuine_ about it.  She kept them waiting less to make a point and more because she would forget her own head if it wasn't screwed on.  Besides, lately they'd all been distracted, not only with worry for the airmen, but also by the near-constant air raids that interrupted the show at least two nights a week, and put them in the little basement of the house other nights.  After the first week or so the raids became routine, though Kim wasn't sure if she'd just gone numb in self-defense or if it really was just becoming a way of life:  nightly listening to the bombs going off overhead, and in the mornings searching the paper and listening to the radio for the reports of what had been hit.   
   
Then she'd get another letter from Robinson, and realize that she hadn't gone numb at all.  He still wrote about books, but those notes were interspersed with little details about his flights, how the English countryside looked from the air as though he were still a mail pilot. Kim went along in her own letters, never mentioning the raids but talking about who had come to the show, or some funny thing Paula had done, or how her songs for the radio were coming.  He always mentioned them, seemed to make a point of listening to Simon's show when he could, and she sang her songs as if to him.  Simon had commented on how much more emotion was in her performance of late, and when he asked why she was evasive, saying that she thought everyone was a little more emotional these days.  Though she could see by Carly's expression that her friend knew the real source, Kim wanted to keep her feelings for Robinson to herself.  After all, he wasn't her man.

Kim also couldn't wait to sing a new song, the one Carly had suggested a few weeks ago.  She'd been working on it with Paula and Randy, but Paula had wanted her to wait so she could see Simon's reaction to the song for herself.  Paula and Simon Fuller had gone up to Scotland for a week honeymoon, and were expected back anytime, though with the current situation travel times were variable, and Kim presumed that Paula would meet them at the BBC studio at Broadcast House.  After all, she now lived closer to it, in Simon Fuller's flat; all of her things had been moved out in the days just before her small wedding.

Kim and Jen were sitting on the terrace, smoking and waiting for Kat to finish primping, when Jen looked over the railing to the garden below.  "Who is that?" she asked.

Kim looked and saw a young man in a uniform walking a bicycle to the back entrance of the house.  "Looks like Western Union, or whatever they call it in England," she said.  She turned to look at Jen.

"I wonder what they could want here," she said.

They sat quietly as the boy knocked at the door, and Mandisa answered.  She tipped him, thanked him, and he was on his way as she shut the door behind him.  There was a pause—Kim was holding her breath—and then they heard her shout.  Quickly they put out their cigarettes and ran down the stairs.

Mandisa was kneeling on the floor in the hall, and turned when she heard Kim and Jen coming.  "Oh girls, girls," she wailed, holding out the telegram.   
   
Some of the other girls, hearing the shout, were also gathering in the hall, including Kat.  Kim took the telegram and read aloud as Jen comforted Mandisa: 

> WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT MR AND MRS SIMON FULLER WERE KILLED LAST NIGHT STOP GERMAN BOMBERS ATTACKED HOTEL AND SURROUNDING VILLAGE STOP PLEASE ADVISE AS TO NEXT OF KIN AND OTHER INSTRUCTIONS STOP BRITISH HOME OFFICE

 

Kim felt that she'd been knocked back on her heels a bit, and for a moment lost her breath. The girls gasped, and Kat started to cry. The reactions of the others brought Kim out of her haze and focused her thoughts.  She looked down at Jen.  "Randy's probably already at Broadcast House waiting for us," she said.

Mandisa looked up.  "Ruben is at the Pyramid," she said softly.  "Someone should call him."

"We'll take care of everything," Jen said, "don't you worry."  She helped the woman to her feet.

Kim looked at the other girls.  "Gina, could you call the Pyramid, and then Rabbi Yamin?  And can someone put a kettle on?  Oh, and one of you should run over to the boarding house and let the boys know.  I'll go over to Broadcast House."

Jen nodded.  "We'll be fine here, Kim.  You go on."

Kim grabbed her bag and went out the door, hailing a cab in the street.  "Broadcast House," she said.  She was glad she'd tucked a handkerchief into her bag, but there would be plenty of time to cry later, when she was alone.

* * *

_27 September 1940_

Kim had heard people describe memorials as being somehow not-real, and though she'd lost one of her grandmothers when she was young, she'd never lost a friend, and hadn't understood what they meant until now.  She kept catching herself thinking that Paula would walk in the door any time now; when they were all gathering to go to Simon Fuller's flat and she'd looked over the group to make sure no one was missing she almost said, "We have to wait for Paula."  Kat was almost inconsolable, and Kim was very glad that she was so close to Rabbi Yamin, as he could be a comfort to her.

There was no real funeral; Rabbi Yamin had gone to Scotland and overseen the immediate burial that was their custom.  Instead, he suggested a day where people could gather and say a few words of remembrance and comfort to one another.  Everyone connected to the review was there, and all their friends from the BBC, and also Simon Fuller's people.  Kim had sent word to the base and the airmen had all gone in on some lovely flowers, pretty white lilies like the ones that adorned the tables at the Pyramid, which seemed fitting as they stood for Paula and her Mr. Fuller both.  
   
Simon Cowell spoke of the joys and frustrations of just being around her, and how she could turn so quickly from talking about clothing to making an interesting critique of some singer, which infuriated him because he had to actually listen to everything she had to say, and he didn't much like listening to other people. But even though what Simon said was light-hearted, he made eye contact with few of them, and Ryan was very near.  And he had hugs for the three singers—deep, sad, clinging hugs that almost brought Kim to tears.   
   
Ryan Seacrest talked about Paula's wedding the week before; with the raids and all she'd given up on a larger ceremony in the house and instead they'd just had a few friends, Randy and the Studdards, the Lythgoes, and Ryan and Simon.  She'd worn a new peach suit and a little hat with a veil big enough for Fuller to lift up when he kissed her, and Ryan had teased her about being a blushing bride.     
   
Randy told of he and Paula's first meeting in New York, how even then she'd always seemed to be in perpetual motion, how she'd come over to dinner with him and his wife and they'd worked out the basics of the review right there at his kitchen table, and while Randy was finding a band Paula was searching New York for a performance space before a friend of theirs, almost off-hand, suggested London and Simon Fuller in particular.  Randy said that it was as though fate meant Paula to become a Fuller, and now she always would be.  
   
Jen, predictably, made them laugh until they cried with memories of Paula's antics:  of how long it took her to get dressed even just to go to the store; of her need to stand up and dance to almost every song that she heard, even if she was in the middle of a department store, and how that nearly got them kicked out of Harrod's; of the shock those who had only spoken to her on the phone always had to meet her and realize how tiny she was in person; and of how determined she was to make the revue, and everything else she did, as perfect and polished as possible.  "She was the little engine that could."  
   
Some of the girls pitched in with Kim to take over house duties from Mandisa for a while, so they'd brought food to Fuller's flat and stayed to clean up after, as did Carly and Joel, bless them.  Kim was surprised at Jen's overall willingness to help; she wasn't really that much of a diva but she'd never been one for kitchen work before.  Kim stayed in motion as much as she could; she wouldn't have the show to distract her from both their loss and the war going on overhead until the reopening on Monday.  And she needed that distraction badly.  Even reading didn't help, because books meant Robinson, and then she'd start to worry, and smoke a cigarette, and then go make another pie.  
   
The boys in the band were being very well fed.

* * *

_30 September 1940_

Kim had never been so reliant on that old saw, "The show must go on."  She knew the best tribute to Mr. and Mrs. Fuller's memory was to perform the show they'd each been so involved in.  Backstage was tense with a kind of tired sadness and Melinda, the vocal director, had quite a time getting them warmed up and energetic for the show.  It wasn't until Simon and Ryan had come backstage with Randy to say a few words to the company that Kim could feel the mood changing.  
   
The opening number went off without a hitch and they all settled gratefully back into the groove of performing.  No wonder the show went on, she thought.  It's cathartic, just what show people need in such a time.  They poured their heightened emotion into the show and the crowd sent it back to them in waves.  "Caravan" felt the closest to Paula; her father had come to the States from Syria and she'd always meant it as tribute to him.  It was the last new number she'd choreographed and a better legacy of her style Kim couldn't think of.  The spectacle closed the show, and when they finished, the audience gave them a thunderous standing ovation.  As the company took their bows, Kim glanced at Simon, in his usual place near the front, and saw tears streaming down his cheeks.  
   
Backstage there was a palpable sense of relief.  Randy had slated only one show that night, to ease them back into the routine, but Kim was confident that they'd be fine with their usual two shows the next day.  The whole BBC gang was there, too, Carly and Joel and Nigel and Giuliana and her Bill.  A large group of them went to an after hours club, telling stories and laughing, and Carly said it was like the wakes she was used to.  
   
The girls got back to the house quite late.  After the singing and the dancing and the laughter Kim felt almost serene, so she went downstairs to make herself some chamomile tea.  Ruben had built some cubbyholes into the wall in the front hall for their mail, and Kim saw that she had two envelopes but no postcards—odd; she hadn't received anything from Robinson in a few days, but perhaps it was the mail service.  She wasn't very tired, but she wanted to be alone, so she went upstairs to Paula's former room at the other end of the hall.  
   
There was nothing of Paula's in the room, as her things had been moved to Mr. Fuller's flat just before the wedding, and they'd spent that first night there.  Now, of course, most of her things were being shipped back to her family in Los Angeles.  Devoid of Paula's personal touches the room was pretty but bland, the bed made up with crisp white sheets and a coverlet with yellow roses, small lamps on each nightstand, the top of the bureau empty but for a lace-trimmed scarf.   
   
Kim sat in one of the small upholstered chairs and turned on the lamp beside it.  The first letter was from a college chum who'd married a medical student and moved to Chicago.  She'd found a secretarial position, and he worked as a janitor on the weekends to help with the money while he was still in school.  With the housing shortage they were still living in a small apartment—not that there were many neighborhoods that would sell to them—so they were putting off having children for a bit.  But she sounded happy, other than her worries about war, for her husband had already declared his intention to sign up "when we get into this fight."  She took comfort in his having a medical degree, which would keep him back from the front lines.  
   
Kim's mention of Robinson had made her curious, and much to Kim's chagrin she had asked her husband, who'd been at Morehouse a few years ahead of them, to ask around to his college pals.  She reported that Robinson had a reputation of being a real square.  He didn't go to parties or run with a lot of girls or join any clubs other than the Future Engineers and the Glee Club, and was usually to be found in the library with his nose in a book. His dress was always a few years behind the times; the only thing he lacked was the coke-bottle glasses.  But for all that he was well liked, and secretary of his class.  "In other words," her friend said, "he sounds perfect for you."  
   
Kim shook her head as she set the letter aside.  She'd expected the next one to be from her mother or some other relative, but was surprised to see it was from Robinson.  She didn't think he'd ever sent her a proper letter before.  It began with all the usual things she expected in his postcards:  the book he was reading, the countryside he'd seen during a mission, how the other boys were doing, some news he heard from back home.  And then the tone changed:  
   


> _Now let me speak frankly here, as we always do with one another.  You've been knocked sideways by the news of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller.  We all have.  And if I know you you're spending most of your time making sure everyone around you is doing well and not worrying about yourself at all.  If I were there, I'd make it a point to take care of you, and I'm real sorry I can't be there just to give you a squeeze and an ear.  But I'll give you permission to be a little self-indulgent.  Next time you're at tea with Carly have all pastries and no sandwiches.  Or read a silly book.  I expect you're pretty sad, and running around acting happy.  But I bet Mrs. Fuller herself would have told you it's okay to just stop and let yourself be sad._

   
Kim read the paragraph again, and smiled at Robinson's gentle scolding.  She sighed, and thought of him giving her "a squeeze" and suddenly she could almost feel his arms around her.  She let the letter fall into her lap and pulled her knees up to her chest, thinking of Robinson and all that Paula had said about him, and strangely she didn't feel quite so alone.  And then, finally, looking around at the empty room, she began to cry.  
   


* * *

_18 October 1940_

Even though they were coming into London for the first time in months on a precious weekend pass, the mood of Squadron 15 was somber.  They could scarcely afford the time away, but Simon Cowell had actually come to the base and worked some kind of magic with Capt. Johns that Amanda suspected had to do with the recent death of Paula Abdul, which had touched them all.  Squadron 11 had gotten their time the weekend before, which avoided grumbling and let Hicks strut around like he was getting something special. The twelve members of Squadron 15, plus their pastor, sat together in one area of the train car, as they were all bound for the Pyramid Club, where they'd make the second Friday night show.

"So what are you up to for the rest of this nice weekend pass, Rogers?" Cook asked.

"Chik, you know, the drummer for the band? Well, he's giving a party on Saturday night, right in that house the band shares."

"_All_ the chorus girls will be there," Grigsby added.

"Aww, c'mon Grigsby," Castro said. "You know you've only had eyes for that Kiki for months now."

Robinson whistled, low. "She's the one with the little girl back home, that right?"

"Yeah," Grigsby said, bashfully.

"She'll put you through your paces."

"Whaddya think she's _been_ doing?" Young said, and everyone laughed.

"A party with the band doesn't seem like your sort of thing, Padre," Cook said.

"No," Sligh replied. "I've been invited by Rabbi Yamin to help him in his work this weekend. And a real honor that is."

"Bice and I are going, too," Phil Stacey said, "and Daughtry and his girl, of course."

"Katharine's been working for him during her off time," Daughtry said, "and even more since she lost her Mrs. Fuller. "Her letters have been full of these poor little children, and their stories. I tell you, it's made me think even more about what we're doing up there, what we're fighting against. And Kat, a girl like that, a real beautiful, talented girl, the kind of girl you want to take care of, and she's spending all her time taking care of these children." He stopped and looked up, suddenly realizing that the car had grown quiet, the men all listening to him. "Well," he said, laughing, a little shy now, "I guess I hit the jackpot, huh?"

"Yep," Cook said. "I guess you have."

Amanda, who was kneeling up on her seat behind Daughtry, reached over the back to touch his shoulder. "And I know that Katharine thinks she has, too."

Daughtry nodded, and cleared his throat. "So what about you, Cook?"

"Oh, Richardson's little Irish girl is gonna have a wingding at her place," he replied. "Kelly's going, and actually asked me to escort her, which I'm taking as a positive sign."

Bice shook his head. "That girl is giving you quite a hard time," he said. "Hope she's worth it."

Cook shrugged. "I hope so, too."

Only a few of them—Amanda, Chris, Blake, Robinson and Cook—knew that the actual reason for all of Cowell's machinations was his intention to give a party Saturday night, a kind of wake in Paula's honor and a celebration of Giuliana's engagement.  Given that Simon wanted to ensure that people could _relax_ at this party, the guest list was small, and had been helped by Randy suggesting to Chik Easy that the band could have a little gathering at the house. That the party was Carly's was just a cover story.  
   
But Cook's description of Carly as "Richardson's little Irish girl" reminded Amanda of the role she had to play. It was so much harder during off times like this to remember to be somewhat solicitous to Blake.  She sat next to him now, and it seemed odd to have Chris on the other side of him rather than near her.  On base the strict anti-fraternization rules made it easier; no one expected her to sit in the lounge draped all over Blake, and she did genuinely enjoy talking to him.  But until they were alone, she and Blake would have to play the game, and it made Amanda irritable.  The barnstorming years had spoiled her, awakened her to her own desires in a way even college did not, as much as she had been seduced by, and seduced in her turn, quite a few fellow Smith girls.  Now she was being asked to go backwards—maybe not back to the "fine young lady" box of her adolescence, as they expected her to be tomboyish, but back to a nice girl who wants a nice boy—and she wasn't sure she could pull it off.  
   
The conversation had moved on to other topics, and Amanda stared out the windows of the train at the setting sun.  She couldn't wait to see Carly and have some sort of connection to sanity and her true self, though by the looks of the bombed out countryside Carly hadn't had it any easier.  Amanda couldn't even tell where they were, as all the station signs had been painted out for the duration.  At least consoling Carly—alone, at night—was infinitely better than trying to console herself while Chris was on a mission.  She could hear the restraint in Carly's letters, all the things Carly didn't want to worry her with, but in this war who was untouched?  Her letter telling of the bombing of Giuliana's flat was such a document of understatement that Amanda had teased in her reply, telling Carly that the stiff-upper-lipped English were rubbing off on her.  Predictably, this wasn't received well, and Amanda had gotten a reply full of language that Carly wouldn't say in front of her mother.  But it had pushed Carly to say something real, which she had no problem doing in person. 

Girls had certainly set their caps for Amanda in the past, but none like Carly.  Amanda had forgotten, in those years on the road, what it was like to sleep with a girl you could also have a conversation with.  The last time they'd had dinner together, they'd discussed philosophy, of all things!  They weren't exchanging book reviews like Kim and Robinson (and truly, what was it going to take for those two to get over their shyness and _do_ something?  That was a mess you wouldn't find either Amanda or Carly in) but Amanda was very aware that Carly had received a proper classic education.  When she said Amanda was a hedonist, she knew very well what it meant!

Yet Carly wasn't prim like a Smith girl could be.  Carly was a real _woman_ who'd made her own way, who could handle men like Simon and women like, well, like Amanda.  At the clubs Simon took them to, Carly could keep rivals away with little more than a glance.  And she had played Amanda herself like a violin, wearing that beautiful dress and then acting aloof the second time they met.  (Carly was a real woman in bed, too; she'd certainly taught Amanda a few things!)  Amanda was not ashamed to admit that she was a little spoiled, though some of that had been knocked out of her on the road and even more in the RCAF, but she was still used to getting away with things when she needed to.  She was well aware with Carly that she got away with little that Carly didn't want her to get away with.

A girl walked down the aisle selling sandwiches and pastries, and they bought a few, Blake and Amanda both intent on getting Chris to eat more than his share.  It was nice to have someone to help her take care of Chris, who despite his protests still needed someone to look after him.  Even with their fresh shaves and well-combed hair Chris and Blake both looked exhausted; Robinson, sitting opposite her, didn't look much better.   
   
The girl's wrist passed Amanda's nose as she handed out the sandwiches and her perfume reminded Amanda of the day that they'd gone to get Carly a bottle of perfume as a present from Amanda herself.  It was late spring, one of the first times that they had ventured beyond the safe confines of a few bars and cafes frequented by "our sort" as Simon liked to say.  Amanda was feeling flush, and wanted to get Carly a properly romantic present, something that would suit Carly, and they'd decided on some very nice perfume.  For the sake of propriety Carly would buy it herself, but who would think it strange for a girl to bring her friend with her to the store to decide on a fragrance?  They'd tried several, giggling, Amanda doing her best not to make any suggestive remarks, before finally settling on Tea Rose.  It was classic and pretty, just like Carly.  Amanda loved it.  
   
She felt a hand on hers.  "Thinking of me?" Blake asked.

She turned to him and smiled.  "Of course," she replied, mindful of the others in the car.  "Who else?"   
   
Blake nodded, and turned back to Chris and their conversation, but he kept her hand in his.  Amanda was annoyed; she felt a little scolded, though she knew none of it was Blake's fault.  
   
She looked up and saw Robinson had put his book down and was staring out the window, so she leaned forward.  "Excited to see your girl?" she asked.  
   
"What?  Oh!"  He smiled and looked down, the way Chris did when he blushed.  "She's not _my_ girl, but yes."  
   
Amanda shook her head.  "What makes you think she isn't?" she asked.  
   
"Oh, that kind of girl—I know she's out of my league.  I'm not kidding myself."  
   
"Robinson, you're a pilot."  
   
"I'm really an engineer who can fly."  He leaned closer.  "Besides, we haven't, you know..."  
   
Amanda leaned in too.  "Fucked?" she asked.  
   
Robinson sat back.  "What?  No!" he said.  
   
"Amanda!" Chris said, turning to her.  "Have some class, sister!"  
   
"What?" she asked.  "I was just asking.  The way you boys talk—"  
   
"Yeah, _boys_," Chris said.  "And anyway I don't talk like that and neither does Robinson. Jeez, try being a lady sometimes."  
   
Amanda sighed, annoyed.  "What _did_ you mean, Robinson?"  
   
"Kissing," he replied.  "We haven't kissed."  
   
"Well, she's not gonna kiss _you_," Amanda replied.  "She's a real lady."  
   
"That she is.  So is Miss Hennessey."  
   
Amanda smiled but remembered to bite her tongue in the nick of time.  "She is that," Chris said, "unlike _some_ people."  
   
"Say, that's my girl you're talking about," Blake said, loyally playing his role.  
   
"Well, you can have her," Chris retorted, but there was a flash in Chris's eyes—he'd always thought of Amanda as _his_ girl.  Amanda remembered that the charade wasn't easy for him, either, and resolved to buy _him_ a drink once they reached the Pyramid.  
   
"Children, really," Cook said, smiling and shaking his head.   
   
The conductor came into the car then:  "Paddington Station next!" he shouted.  
   
Amanda turned to look out the window at London, but she couldn't see a single city light.  It was eerie to walk down the dark city streets, even though they knew them fairly well by now.  The group grabbed a quick dinner at a pub before heading to the Pyramid for the second show.  The coat check girl was still cute as a button and Amanda had to check herself again; one thing about being on base, there were fewer women around.  As they entered the main room she saw Carly, gorgeous as ever, and just like that she wasn't thinking about any other girl in the world but her own.  Carly gave them a smile as they walked in and sat with her and the rest of the BBC crew.  But when Carly hugged Chris, as she must, Amanda had to make a fist.  She didn't like this self-control business, not one little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Contesting Tears_ is a book by philosopher Stanley Cavell.
> 
> I'm going to wait to talk about the Battle of Britain and the London Blitz in terms of the larger war; here I just want to give you enough context to understand what is going on within the story itself.
> 
> The "official" dates of the Battle of Britain—that is, the battle of the Germans trying to gain air superiority prior to a planned invasion of Britain, and the British attempt to stop them—are from mid-July to the end of October 1940. Note that I made a change here for the story's sake—what happened on 10 July was actually that the Germans started bombing convoys in the English Channel, and that's where most of the fighting until mid-August took place. Once the convoys were haulted due to ship losses the fighting moved to the RAF airfields, which would continue until early September.
> 
> On 24 August an attack hit London, and while it's unclear whether that bombing was an error, the RAF did bomb Berlin over the next two nights in retaliation. This led Hitler to rescind a previous directive to avoid civilian targets, and on 7 September the London Blitz began—57 consecutive nights of bombing. 43,000 civilians died, half of them in London, and over a thousand aircrew were lost.
> 
> We know how this ends (psst, the British won) but how and why, I'll leave to another chapter.


	11. It Happened One Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon throws a party. Drama ensues.

_19 October 1940_  
   
Ryan was very glad that he'd spent Friday night in his own flat in his own bed.  Carly and Amanda had gone to Carly's flat, so there was no need to make room for them, and Simon—well, Simon in planning mode was not something Ryan wanted to be around for long periods of time.  He was just glad that Simon had hired maids and caterers, so he wouldn't be tempted to order Chris and Blake about making preparations for the party he was throwing in Bill and Guiliana's honor. Ryan himself, he knew, would receive no such courtesy.  And so he hid.  
   
Not that he was alone.  Cook had stayed over, which pleased Joel; that relationship Ryan didn't quite understand but it seemed to work for them.  Actually, Ryan admired Cook's ability to juggle Joel and Kelly without the lady being any the wiser.  Then again, that lady was blowing hot and cold with such frequency that perhaps she wasn't paying the closest attention to what Cook was up to.  There had been some discussion about whether to invite Kelly to Simon's little party, but Kim had vouched for her and Cook wanted to see her, so she was in.  Joel had invited two of the chorus girls to amuse him; Gina and Haley seemed like a handful but that handful would keep Joel from mooning over Cook, so Ryan was all for that.  Randy was coming, of course, and Lythgoe, and Ryan didn't doubt that those two and Simon would end up holding court in some corner, keeping the scotch hostage.  It was up in the air whether Jen would show up; she was in tight with the band, with her carrying on with the Smith cousins, and her presence at the other party would probably keep them from burning the house down or something similarly unwise.  But Ryan hoped she would show, because she was so much fun to gossip with and Ryan loved hearing all the ins and outs of the band and their admirers.  
   
And then, after a lovely egg breakfast with Cook and Joel, Ryan changed into an old sweater, put his party clothes into his case, squared his shoulders, and went off to Simon's flat like a big boy.  
   
Simon answered the door, already sounding harried.  "One moment!" he shouted, and there was some noise, and then he opened the door.  But seeing it was Ryan, his demeanor changed.  "Hello," he purred, smiling.  
   
"All right," Ryan said, walking into the room, "what needs to be done."  
   
"Not much actually," Simon said, shutting the door and then standing just behind Ryan and wrapping an arm around his waist.  
   
"You sounded pretty busy just now," Ryan said, feeling Simon nuzzling his throat.  "What's got into you?"

"You in that jumper," Simon answered.

"Jumper? Oh, the sweater. Why?"

Simon ran his hands along Ryan's shoulders.  "You have a lovely torso."

Ryan smiled.  "I think you asked everyone to wear sweaters to this party so you could lust over them."

"No," Simon said innocently.  "I just wanted my guests to be comfortable, and the airmen out of uniform.  Forget things for a while."

"Uh-huh.  Not, be surrounded by fit young flyboys in clinging sweaters, not you."

Simon snickered.  "Jealous?"

"Nope."

"Anyway, the girls will be wearing jumpers, too, and theirs cling more."

"If you say so."  Ryan leaned back in Simon's arms.  "Are the fellas still here?"

"No.  They went to buy clothes for the party.  Apparently Chris doesn't trust Blake to dress himself."

"Ah.  When does the maid arrive?"

"In about an hour."

"The caterers?"

"They'll drop off the food just before the party," Simon replied, nibbling at Ryan's ear.

"Jeez, Simon, we spend one night apart and you're all over me."

Ryan could feel Simon shrug.  "Got used to seeing you."

"You mean fucking me," Ryan said.

"Not just that," he replied, "but that too, yes."

Ryan sighed.

"I'm sure it will soothe my nerves," Simon said, running one large hand across Ryan's chest.

"Mmm, well, I'll have to take another shower before the party anyway," Ryan said, and turned in Simon's arms to kiss him.  
   


* * *

"You're sure this looks all right?" Robinson asked again, smoothing down the front of his deep blue sweater.  
   
"Would I come to this party with you if you looked a mess?" Kim asked.  
   
Robinson shrugged.  "Guess I'm not used to being out of uniform.  Never was a real snappy dresser in college."  
   
"Neither was I," Kim said, "not until I was a singer."   
   
"Well, that orange sweater sure becomes you," he said.  
   
Kim thought the scoop-necked sweater that Carly and Jen had encouraged her to buy was a bit _too_ clingy, but she was among friends.  It also brought new life to her favorite brown plaid skirt, and made her feel appropriately autumnal.  "Thank you," she said with an incline of her head.  
   
The elevator stopped and as they emerged into the hall they could hear the music from the party.  
   
Joel answered the door, wearing his usual manic grin.  "Hey!" he called out.  "Come on in!  Have a cocktail."  He offered them a tray of highball glasses.  "I'll take your coats. There's sandwiches and little things in the kitchen."  
   
They each took a glass and walked into the main room, a large square room with windows on one end that looked out over the square.  To one side was the dining room and beyond that, the kitchen; to the other, the hallway that led to the bedrooms.  "Oh, this is gorgeous," Kim said, running her finger along the inlaid veneer patters of a lacquered sideboard.  "What a lovely apartment."  She looked around and nearly everyone was already there.  Cook, Kelly, and Jen were in one corner, and Kim was mildly surprised to see George Huff with them, though the party the band was throwing that night was surely not going to be his sort of thing.  Amanda and Carly were on a settee, talking with Ryan who was perched on the arm.  Ruben seemed to be having some sort of serious conversation with Chris Richardson.  Blake was laughing and dancing a bit with Gina and Haley and Joel, who'd followed them into the room.  Simon was hustling Mandisa out of the kitchen, scolding her for getting her hands dirty at someone else's party; Kim watched him take a drink, place it firmly into her hand, and steer her toward Randy, who was talking to Nigel Lythgoe.  
   
Robinson stood stiffly next to Kim as he looked over the room.  "I'll tell you what," he said, "I've never been much for at parties.  I might not leave your side."  
   
Kim looked up at him and smiled, she hoped reassuringly, and put one hand on his elbow.  "That's just fine by me," she said, "but I think you know everyone here already.  Look, there's small David by the phonograph."  
   
As they walked over, small David looked up to see them approach.  "Robinson!" he said, extending his hand.  He was wearing an argyle sweater in various shades of green with an open-necked shirt and trousers.  Kim could scarcely believe he was eighteen, but he did look collegiate.  Next to him was his sweetheart, Diana DeGarmo, pretty in a pink sweater and grey tweed skirt.  
   
"Hello, Archie," Robinson replied, using the airmen's nickname.  "How is Cambridge?"  
   
"Super," he replied.  "Even got the fellas up there calling me 'Archie' too!  But I wish I was still flying with you."  
   
Robinson shook his head.  "Now, you made a deal.  I saw you shake on it."  
   
Small David sighed.  "Yeah, I guess."  
   
Robinson turned to Kim.  "Lt. Cook made Archie here promise not to join up until we Americans come in for real."  To Archie he said, "Plenty of time for that later."  
   
"Yes, _plenty_ of time," said Diana, taking his hand.  
   
"All _right_ Diana.  Jeez."  
   
"And you, Miss DeGarmo?" Kim asked.  "You're here in London?"  
   
"Yes," she replied.  "I'm studying literature at University College."  
   
"She wants to be a lady reporter," Archie said.  
   
Kim smiled.  "Well I think we need a lot more of those," she said.  
   
The music wound down then, and Gina made a beeline for them.  "C'mon, Arch," she said.  "Play somethin' peppy so we can dance!"  
   
"I dunno," he replied, "Simon's awful careful about his furniture."  
   
"Aw, we're not going to Lindy if that's what you're thinking," she said.  "Just a little hoochie-coochie, you know, for the boys."  She shook her shoulders illustratively, then elbowed Diana.  "We can teach your girl here," she said, grinning.  
   
"Gina, really," Kim said.  "She's just a kid."  
   
Gina shrugged.  "Not much younger than I was when I started," she said, "but I just meant shake it for her fella here.  I saw you two cutting the rug at the Glenn Miller concert.  You're all right."  
   
"Thanks," Diana said, flushing.  
   
"Seems to me," Robinson said, "aren't many fellas here that would appreciate your 'hoochie-coochie' anyways."  
   
"Oh, you'd be surprised," she said.  "These nancy boys, they like a pretty girl showing herself off.  _And_ they're not grabby:  the perfect customer!   Besides, there are certainly some _girls_ looking my way."  She winked and tipped her head at Amanda, who was looking like Hepburn or Dietrich in her woolen slacks and boxy sweater.  "So play some hot jazz, brother," she said.  
   
Small David had just started going through the pile of 78s in their brown paper wrappers when there was another commotion at the door.  
   
"Ah!" Simon said, walking through the room.  "Our guests of honor!"  
   
Giuliana and Bill came in from the hall, and all the various groups broke up as folks walked over to wish them well.  
   
"There's a distraction from the hoochie-coochie," Robinson muttered.  
   
Kim shook her head.  "Knowing Gina, not for long."

"No?" Robinson asked.

"The other dancers talked up the band party all week, but Gina and Haley promised Joel, and they couldn't exactly brag about how they got on this exclusive list, could they? I think she wants to make this party as eventful as that one will be. Even if she has to do it single-handedly."

"Hmm." Robinson considered this, looking at the crowd around Giuliana and Bill. Kim knew him well enough by now to wait, and she stood sipping her drink. "Well, I'm sure Overmyer can handle her. And eventful isn't always bad, right?"

"I hope not," Kim replied.

* * *

Ryan hadn't been to a party like this since he left Hollywood—and by "like this" he meant, "at which I can kiss my boyfriend on the cheek."  Sure, there were nights out at carefully vetted clubs, but other than that, this love affair was a private one, almost as private as the one he'd had with David.  Though that was the only way in which they bore any resemblance.  
   
He walked down the hall, wondering what happened to Joel and hoping he wasn't sulking someplace, when there he was, standing near the spare bedroom door.  Seeing him, Joel put a finger to his lips, then pointed through the door.  Ryan stopped, just on the other side of the door; peeking in, he saw Cook and Kelly sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed.  
   
"No, I reckon I don't understand," Cook was saying.  "You want me around, then you don't.  If you really want to get rid of me, I'll skedaddle.  Just say the word."  
   
"That isn't what I want either," Kelly said, and her voice wavered.  
   
Cook sighed.  "Then what _do_ you want?"  
   
"I want there to not be this war!" Kelly replied.  
   
"Can't do anything about that," Cook said.  "I know I might not come back but while we're together—"  
   
"No, it isn't even that."  She sighed.

"It isn't—but if it isn't about me dying, what could it be?" He took her hand in his and said, tenderly, "Just tell me."

Kelly had her head down, staring at the floor, and was quiet for a good minute.  Then she started speaking again, soft and slow.  "I only remember a couple of things from before Daddy left; I was pretty little.  But he laughed a lot, and we played games.  It was like he was sunshine in the room."  
   
"So that's where you get it," Cook said.  
   
"Yeah, kinda," Kelly said, smiling a little at him.  "But when he came back, man, I remember _that_.  I was five and had just started school and I came home one day and there he was.  And he looked like his picture, but he didn't look like he did when I closed my eyes?  That's when I realized, he wasn't smiling.  He came back, but he was shell shocked."  
   
"Oh, Kelly."  
   
"After a while, he could have fun sometimes, but other times, he might have a hard night, especially if there was a storm, and the next day he'd be so tired.  He'd say, 'I'm sorry Kelly, Daddy can't play today' and finally I just stopped asking. Sometimes he'd get real mad at stupid things and Mama would yell at him to go outside and calm down.  And in tornado weather, he _hated_ coming into the storm cellar.  He'd stand outside until the last minute.  Made Mama worry something awful." She shook her head. "I'm just glad we had the farm—if he couldn't work outside?  And on his own schedule?  If he was in a factory or an office with a boss watching him?  He wouldn't have been able to work.  I don't know how Mama did it.  Sometimes it was too much even for her and she'd take us all to her sister's for a week or so.  I felt so sorry for Daddy, being alone and unhappy and not being able to help how he was."  
   
"Kelly—"  
   
"So Cook, you know I really care for you—I've never met _anyone_ like you—but if you came back like that, I don't know if I could take it.  And I won't make a promise to you I can't keep."  
   
Another silence, and Ryan looked up at Joel, who was staring down at the floor, shaking his head.

At last Cook said, "We don't know what's gonna happen.  I think we should just hold on to _now_ and let the future take care of itself.  I appreciate what you're saying, about promises; you're a lady with integrity, and that, well I'm just gonna say it, that's one thing that makes me love you, Kelly.  But I've already seen some pretty terrible things, things that give me nightmares sometimes, and I think I'm doing okay.  You know, I've had fellas shooting at me, trying to kill me, I'm trying to kill them, and sometimes you can see their faces, and they can see yours, and you're still shooting at them.  I know it can get worse; none of my buddies have died and I know that's coming.  But I'm doing all right so far."  He stopped, and there was a little rustling.  "Dy'a think you can take a chance?  Maybe just try, with me?"  
   
Kelly sighed, and she sounded a little teary.  "I want to," she said.  
   
"Well," Cook said.  "Let's start with that.  That sounds real good."  
   
Joel moved quickly past the slightly open door, so Cook and Kelly couldn't see, though Ryan suspected that Cook knew that Joel had been there.  Once they were out of earshot Ryan whispered, "Sounds like you lost a lover."  
   
Joel shrugged.  "My ass was starting to get sore anyway.  Damn, how can you do that all the time?"  
   
Ryan looked over at Simon, who was standing with Randy and Nigel, and just laughed.  "It's worth it," he said.

Carly and Giuliana were standing near the bar chatting.  "Can I get you ladies a drink?"  Ryan asked. 

At their nods, Joel said "_I'll_ do it," and stepped behind the bar.

"We were just talking about moving to the States," Giuliana said.

"Both of you?" Ryan asked.

"I hear there are opportunities there," Carly said.

"While I'm sure that Simon would hate to lose you, as would the BBC, it could be a great challenge for you. Much more room for advancement in the States."

Carly shrugged.  "I'm just thinking about it for now," she said. "No decisions yet!"

"Well, if you want to put together an air check," Ryan said, "I'd be happy to make sure it gets to the right people.  Only I don't know what the immigration circumstances are; with Giuliana here, it's easy.  But it can't hurt to try."

"I think we could use more girl engineers in the States," Joel said.

"That's woman producer to you, mister!" Carly said, poking him in the shoulder.

"Ow!" Joel said, grabbing her finger.  As they wrestled he asked Giuliana, "So you kids set a date yet?"

"November 14th," she replied.  "Papa says the dress will be finished next week."

"Your father makes dresses?" Ryan asked.

"No, but a friend of his is here in London, and he asked her to make it for us.  The wedding will be quite small but you all will be there, yes?"

"Of course," Carly said.

"And then we leave a week later.  Bill wants to have Thanksgiving with his people."

"I'm sure," Joel said.

Ryan winced.  They'd only agreed to a year's stay in London, but with the war truly starting he wasn't sure how long they'd be here.  And the Atlantic was thick with u-boats—too dangerous to go home often.  But Ryan thought perhaps Christmas in the states was called for.  He wondered if Simon would want to come, too.  Maybe they could find David and bring small David along, and all meet in Atlanta for a big ridiculous family holiday.  Or even, he could host it himself in Los Angeles. 

Realizing he'd been lost in thought he tuned back into the conversation.  "What were you saying about Miss DeGarmo?"

"Papa wants to bring her with us to Chicago," Giuliana said.  "Her people are there and in New York.  She was only staying in London for small David's sake."

Ryan nodded.  "Depending on the US, that might be moot," he said.  "I think '41's the year."

Joel shook his head.  "You said that about this year, too."

Ryan shrugged.  "Has to happen some time."

"Anytime is too soon for me," Simon said, coming up behind Ryan.  "Now you promised no war talk!" he added, wagging a finger.

Ryan smiled.  "Sorry," he said, and gave Simon a kiss on the temple.

* * *

Simon was sitting at his dining table with Randy and Ruben, sipping some very good Scotch.  Nigel had gone home; it was getting rather late and Nigel's all-night drinking days were behind him since he'd become management.  But Simon and Randy were old hands, and truth be told, Randy wanted to postpone going back to the house and seeing what the band was up to for as long as possible.  Ruben, however, had some good news to celebrate.

"Can you believe it?" he said.  "That rich white boy giving me his money?  Uh, no offense Mr. Cowell."

"Please, it's Simon," he said.  "And none taken."

"Simon.  But I told him, I said, 'Richardson, this is a loan, now you shake my hand, because I'm going to pay back every last cent.'  And he looked me right in the eye and he said, 'I have no doubt of that, Mr. Studdard.'  And we shook hands and that was that."  He looked up to see Mandisa walking over to the table.  "Hey baby, c'mere."

"I was just telling the girls!" Mandisa said, sitting down next to her husband.  "I'm so excited.  We're going to bring some real southern hospitality your way."

Ruben gestured to the nearby kitchen.  "Go on, Mandisa, get yourself some ice and join us."

"With your cooking, Mrs. Studdard," Randy said, "and Ruben, well, Simon, Ruben knows just about everybody there _is_ to know."

"I was a bouncer for a long time," Ruben said, nodding. 

"And once the GI's start coming over, when we get into the war proper?" Randy said.  "Man, you'll be rolling in it!  I just have one request."

"Name it," Ruben said.

"You'll let me sign up for another year?"

Ruben grinned, but Simon held up his hand.  "No more talk of war or business tonight, gentlemen."  He held up his glass.  "To Ruben and Mandisa Studdard, new owners of the Pyramid Club.  May you have all the success you deserve."

"Amen to that," Randy said, clinking glasses with the couple.

As they drank, Simon heard a ruckus from the other room, as the music suddenly got livelier—Benny Goodman if he wasn't mistaken.  He leaned back in his chair to look into the living room.  
   
Haley and Gina had been dancing for much of the evening—well, they were dancers after all—and often for the amusement of one of the gay lads, or Joel, who was a particular friend of theirs.  However, Simon had also noticed a little bit of an edge to their interactions, and suspected that there had been some lovers' spat at some earlier point; he'd meant to check on this with Jen, reliable source of all revue gossip, but the opportunity hadn't presented itself.  Haley apparently had decided to best Gina by climbing up onto the coffee table and doing some sort of frantic shimmy-shake in her barely-there dress for the benefit of Chris, Blake and Amanda, who sat on the couch.

Gina stood, scowling, then swallowed the rest of her drink and set the glass down on one of the occasional tables with a thump.  She walked right over to the couch, right in front of Haley, and to the rhythm of the Gene Krupa drum solo, began to shake her shoulders like a much lower class sort of dancer.  Amanda was in the middle of the couch and was getting the benefit of most of this show, but there wasn't much room between the table and the couch, so Gina first straddled, then sat in, Amanda's lap.

"Uh oh," Randy said.

Simon wasn't sure if Amanda was simply drunk, or not really thinking, but as Gina settled into her lap, with Chris and Blake looking on with growing alarm, Amanda put her hands on the girls back to steady her.  And then, unmistakably, those hands moved from Gina's back to cup her rear.

The song ended then, and Gina threw her hands up into the air.  Suddenly from the side of the room came Carly, almost flying across the floor to pluck Gina out of her girlfriend's lap.  "No you bloody _don't_," she shouted, and Simon was very glad indeed that his downstairs neighbors were in the country for the weekend. 

"Hey!" Gina said.

Haley, still standing on the coffee table, pushed Carly.  "Don't you touch her!" she shouted back.

Then there was a lot of very sudden movement.  He was sure he'd never seen either Joel or Ruben move so quickly, but all at once Ruben had Gina to one side of the room and Joel had Carly on the other.  George had stepped in, too, pulling Haley down off the table, and Chris and Blake were keeping Amanda on the couch, but not without a struggle.

"Right," Simon said, stepping more fully into the sitting room.  "Neutral corners I think."

The tableau dispersed.  Kim, Giuliana and Joel lead Carly into one of the back bedrooms, and Gina and Haley were released and stood in the corner.

"I'll make some coffee," Mandisa said, moving off into the kitchen. 

Jen, meanwhile, was talking to the two dancers.  "I know you two have been trying to start something all night," she scolded, "but there's no call to bring these nice girls into it, is there?  And in this nice house?  You call that classy?  I'm ashamed to see it."

"C'mon, Jen," Gina said.  "It's not like you haven't—"

Jen turned and thrust her finger into Gina's face.  "Whatever I have or haven't done, I never brought other people into the fight.  _That's_ against the rules.  And I didn't do it in a friend's apartment!  Look at you two, dancing on the tables, sitting on her lap.  For shame.  Now, you are going to apologize, and then George and I will bring you back to the house."

Gina and Haley looked sulky, but cowed by Jen's scolding they muttered apologies to the room. 

"And you're going to go apologize to Carly, too.  Now as for you," Jen went on, pointing at Amanda, "you'd better be careful.  Carly thinks the world of you—she's nearly out of her mind with worry—and this is how you pay her back?"

"But—" Amanda began.

"Yeah, _but_ is right.  As in, if any man of mine had his hands on another girl's _butt_right in front of me the way you just did to Carly?  He'd be groveling to earn his right to touch _my_ butt ever again."  She turned back to Gina and Haley.  "Come on now.  You coming, George?"

"Right behind you, Jennifer."  As they walked off into the hall George shook his head, chuckling a little to himself.  Chris then dragged Amanda into the dining room with Blake and Robinson following closely behind.

Simon looked about the room, then said, "Well, it isn't a real party unless a fight breaks out, yeah?"

* * *

Carly was pacing the room, white with fury.  "How many times?" she said.  "Waitresses, coat check girls, and I just thought that's her way, she's on that dreadful base all day, she doesn't have other girls like us as friends, if she isn't careful it's because she needs to blow off steam."  She clenched her fist.  "I should have known.  After that first day, with Giuliana, I should have known.  And she's never changed."

Joel tried to soothe her by standing behind her and rubbing her shoulders but she shrugged him off.  "Carly, come on.  Amanda cares for you."

"Yes, but not exclusively.  She always has an eye out; she's always ready to flirt.  If I'd wanted that, I'd be going with men!  Um, no offense."

Joel shrugged.

"But she never _touched_ them before!  I know I'm no glamour girl, but—"

"I think you're beautiful," Joel said.

"_Thank_ you," Carly replied.

The door opened then, and Jen and George shuffled in two contrite dancers.  Gina in particular was staring at the floor.

Carly turned, saw the girls, and lunged at Gina again; George and Joel just about stopped her.

"You bitch—if you want to dance, dance for Joel, I don't care.  But if I see you near her again—"

Jen nudged Gina who said, "I'm sorry!  Fine, I'm sorry, all right?  I let it go too far."

"And _you_," Carly said to Haley, "you're no better."

Haley nodded.  "I'm sorry, too," she said.

"All right, let's go home now," Jen said.  "Kim, I'll see you later on."  The four left the room.

* * *

Chris stood in the corner of the dining room, smoking, ominously silent.  Amanda sat at the table, Robinson next to her, and ran her finger along the curves of a scotch bottle that sat in front of her.  Blake was sitting opposite, closer to Chris, and offered Amanda one of his Luckies, which she accepted.  She drummed her fingers on the table and wished he'd just _say_ it already, so she could apologize and get it over with.

Then suddenly, he spoke.  "Damnit, Amanda!"

"What?" Amanda asked.  "I didn't do anything … much."

"Yeah, you never do anything _much_," he said, "because you always do exactly what you want—which is just enough to cause trouble."

Blake put one hand on Chris's arm.  "You don't have to do this now—"

"No," Chris said, "I think I do."

Mrs. Studdard came in carrying a tray with a big pot of coffee and several cups, and set it on the table.  "I don't think you need this, honey," she said to Amanda, taking away the bottle of scotch and replacing it with a cup of coffee.  "Anyone else?"

Chris raised his hand, as did Robinson, and as she poured those cups Ryan came into the room.  "Here, Mandisa, let me help you," he said, and lifted the tray.

"Thank you Ryan," she replied, and they moved into the living room. 

Amanda looked up at Chris, and saw his stern expression.  She swallowed hard.  "What's—what's going on here?"

"Amy, I love you," Chris began, and Amanda softened a little at her childhood nickname.  "You know I do.  But I'm not your daddy, and lord knows I'm not gonna be your husband.  You're a grown woman now and you're gonna have to start cleaning up your own messes."

"What mess?" she asked.  "When have I ever asked you to—"

"How many times did I come get you out of some girl's bed with her daddy or her husband five minutes behind me?  Half the reason we joined up is because we were running out of small towns with landing strips."

"Oh, and _you_ weren't having any fun in those towns?"

"I was always a damn sight more careful.  You didn't seem to care _who_ saw you flirting and you still don't."  He sighed and shook his head.  "You always were headstrong, and your daddy would just shrug and say 'That's my Amy.'  And when we got out of college you were hell bent for I don't know what, but you sure couldn't stay in Virginia.  So I took you out on the road."

Amanda gasped—that couldn't be why.  "I thought you wanted to go!"

"I did."

"I thought you took me because I'm a good mechanic!"

"I did."

"More exciting than flying a bunch of rich folks back and forth to Atlanta."

"I'm not saying there wasn't some good in it.  I'm not saying it was a mistake.  I _am_ saying that if you don't start being more careful—"

"About sex?"

"About everything!  Jesus, Amy, you're in the Air Force now.  You keep going like you have been and someone is going to sock you even if you are a girl.  And you're not eight anymore; you can't lick everyone you meet."

Amanda stared down at the table, then said, low, "I didn't realize I was so much trouble."

"Well you're worth it, most of the time," he said with a little smile.  "I'm just worried.  I can't always be there, especially now."  He fidgeted, his hand brushing across his thigh.  "When we were little, you took care of me, and then later I took care of you.  Maybe it's time for us to be adults and just take care of ourselves."

She nodded.  "So what now?"

Chris shrugged.  Blake turned to her.  "Right now I think you owe that girl of yours an apology."

Amanda took a deep breath.  "If she's still talking to me."

"I'll see," Robinson said, and left the room.

* * *

They'd been sitting quietly for a few minutes, smoking, some of them sipping coffee.  Carly lay on the bed staring at the ceiling.  Giuliana had pulled a chair near the bed and was holding her hand.  Joel and Kim sat on the low bench at the end of the bed.  There was a knock at the door, and Kim got up to answer it.  Seeing that it was Robinson, she stepped out into the hallway.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Calmer now," Kim replied.  "And Amanda?"

"She got quite a talking-to from Richardson.  She'd like to apologize, if you think Carly would listen."

"I do.  Where are the other girls?"

"Jen and George took them home.  Randy and the Studdards have left now, too, and Kelly with them."

"Still, I think in here would be best."

He nodded his agreement.  "So I'll bring her to you, and we'll see."

"Thank you," Kim said.

"Oh, I haven't done much of anything," Robinson replied.

"Well, still, I'm glad you're here," she said, smiling, and then went back into the bedroom.

A few minutes later, another knock on the door.  Kim opened it and Amanda walked in.  Robinson stayed in the door.  "Carly?" she asked.

Carly sat up.  "Amanda."

Joel turned to Carly.  "Would you like us to leave, or stay?" he asked.

Carly smiled at him, sadly.  "I'll be all right.  You can leave us."

Kim walked back into the living room to see Bill, Simon, Ryan, Cook, small David and Diana drinking coffee and talking quietly.  Simon stood.  "How is she?"

"She's quieted down, at least," Kim said, taking the seat Cook offered her.  "But we'll see."

* * *

 

Amanda hadn't been so nervous since—well, she wasn't sure she'd _ever_ been this nervous, ever cared this much about something in her life.  Carly was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up at her, and she honestly wasn't sure what to say, other than the obvious.  "God, Carly, I am so sorry."

"I know," Carly said.

"I didn't _mean_ anything by it.  I just wasn't thinking."

"I know," she said.

"I just—whatever you want me to say, Carly.  Whatever you want."

Carly ran her hand over the bedspread, then asked, "Do you think I'm pretty?"

"What?  I—of course I do, Carly.  Jesus, you're gorgeous."

She nodded.

"Is this about that day we met?  Because you said—"

"It's not about that, Amanda," Carly said, sounding frustrated.

"All right," she replied.  "Can I sit down?"

"Sure," Carly said, sweeping her hand toward the bench at the foot of the bed.

Amanda sat down, swinging up her legs and sitting sideways.  "So then what is it?" she asked.

Carly lit a cigarette.  "You certainly know how to look the part, in those trousers and suits and jumpsuits you wear."

"You said you liked a girl in a suit."

"I do," Carly said.  "But you don't much act the part."

Amanda scowled.  "What is that supposed to mean?"

"When you first told me you'd been a deb, I didn't believe you.  But it wasn't long before I could see it.  You're really used to being the center of attention, aren't you?"

"Well—"

"If not mine, at least Chris's.  And don't think I haven't thought that you might be with me because Chris has a boyfriend now."

"That's not fair."

"No," she said.  "It's not fair, to me."

"It's not true, either.  Chris has always been the marrying type.  I never was."

"All right," Carly said.  "You said once that I'm a real lady."

"You are," Amanda said.

"Then don't you think I deserve a real gentleman?  If you want to be the center of my attention, shouldn't I be the center of yours?"

Amanda opened her mouth, then closed it again.  She wanted to say, "You are," but it wouldn't have been the truth, and Carly deserved the truth.  "You deserve so much better than me, Carly.  But I can do better.  I can be better."

Carly slid back on the bed, so she was sitting almost next to where Amanda was on the bench.  "Oh, I don't want you to be different.  I like you as you are.  I just—sometimes I wish you'd look at me the way you look at some of these girls.  I wish I felt like the center of your world, at least sometimes."

"But you _are_.  I'm sorry, I just, I've never done this before.  I get scared."

"We all get scared, Amanda."

"Well, I never did," she said.  "I just barrel right through, usually.  But this—but you—" She stopped, took a breath.  "You're the most amazing girl, Carly.  I know I've fucked up but I can do better.  And if I'm being an ass, jeez, just tell me.  Chris doesn't hesitate.  And I'm an ass pretty damn frequently."

Carly grinned a little at that, and Amanda took heart.

"You don't mind him, do you?  Chris, I mean?  Cause, I dunno, we come kind of as a package."

"No," Carly said, gently.  "I don't mind him.  I rather like him.  And Blake, too."

They were quiet for a bit.  Amanda lit a cigarette, and one for Carly who'd finished hers.  "Can I say something?" Amanda asked.

Carly looked up. "Go ahead."

"I just—look, I know I was wrong tonight. And you are the center of my attention. But I think—I wish you were more willing to get attention from other people, too."

"What do you mean?" she asked, scowling.

"I know you want to look professional, but the way you dress—my mother would say that you're hiding your light under a bushel basket."

"You think I look pretty," she replied.

"I do. That doesn't mean that you couldn't dress to attract a little attention, instead of attracting none at all. You know, be proud of how you look. Everyone thinks you look fine, so dress like you think so, too."

"I suppose," Carly said.

"And it's the same thing with your work. Simon thinks you're ready to be a producer, that you've outgrown him, but you haven't moved to bigger things."

"I like working with Simon. It's comfortable."

"That's what I mean. You're so many wonderful things, Carly—everyone says so—but you're so reluctant to believe it. Would you really go to America?"

"That's where you'll be."

"Yes, but I mean, to work? If we could make that happen, would you really go, even if you weren't going with Giuliana?"

Carly took a drag on her cigarette. "It's a big decision, Amanda."

"I know. But you're capable of it, Carly."

"Thanks," she said, and smiled.

"You're also capable of doing a very good hoochie-coochie by the way. Better than either of those girls."

"Oh really?" Carly asked. "Because I think it's you that owe me a hoochie-coochie dance, sister!"

Amanda nodded, smiling ruefully. "You're right, you're right. Are you going to let me?"

"Perhaps."

"Tonight?" she asked with her most charming smile.

"Don't push your luck," Carly said, putting out her cigarette.

"So, are we okay?" Amanda asked.

"Well," Carly said, "it's enough for tonight.  Take me home?" she asked, sliding her hand close to Amanda, who took it in her own.

"Of course," Amanda replied.  "May I stay?"

* * *

Kim heard the click of the door, and set down her coffee cup.  Amanda and Carly emerged from the hall, and Kim felt rather sorry for them, having to face everyone who'd stayed behind. 

Giuliana, in her gentle way, broke the silence.  "Carly, if you want us to take you home—or you can stay with me and Papa tonight if you like."

"No, thank you," Carly said.  "Amanda's going to come home with me."

Simon slipped past them into the front hall and retrieved their coats.  "Let us know if you can't find a cab," he said, handing Carly her coat. 

"I'll take that," Amanda said, and held it up for Carly to put on. "And I'm sure we'll be fine."

"Thank you," Carly said, and with a wave, they were gone.

"Well," Simon said.

There was a flurry of coats and leave-taking then, as it was nearly 2am.  Diana was staying with Giuliana, and Bill was taking them both home.  Simon made much of small David's shyness, and made all the adults turn their backs so Diana could "get her sodding kiss goodnight."  Joel brought small David back to the apartment he shared with Ryan, but not before he confirmed that Cook would be over the next morning to make pancakes "because Ryan and I have been saving all our butter for this!"  Ryan shook his head as he invited Kim and Robinson to come to breakfast, too.  Cook and Robinson then set out to escort Kim home, and the three piled into a cab. 

"Well, that was quite an evening!" Robinson said.

"Yeah," Cook said.  "It really was."

Kim reached over and took Cook's hand.  "Kelly told me you talked.  I'm glad."

He grinned.  "Me too.  I just couldn't figure that girl, but now at least I know what I'm up against."

"I think Overmyer and Miss Hennessey will be okay, too," Robinson said.  "Overmyer's really a good 'un.  She just blusters."

"Like a bull in a china shop," Cook said.

It wasn't far from Simon Cowell's posh square to the little house on its cozy side street.  The cab pulled to a stop and Kim said goodnight to Cook, and turned to do the same with Robinson but he'd already jumped out of the cab, holding the door open for her, then walking her to her door.

"I had a real nice time tonight," he said, smiling. 

"Me too," Kim said, willing the butterflies to stay out of her stomach.  She pulled out her latchkey, but her fingers felt clumsy.

"Let me," Robinson said, and his hand brushed against her for just a moment as he took the key out of her hand.  He slipped it into the lock and turned it, opening the door.  "Good night, Miss Locke," he said, and kissed her cheek.

"Good night, Robinson," she replied, and stepped inside, closing the door behind her quickly.  She leaned up against it, sighing, then turned to look out the side window.  As the cab drove away, she could have sworn she saw Cook cuffing the back of Robinson's head, but that couldn't be.  Why on earth would he do that?

* * *

"Wow," Simon said.

"Yeah," Ryan agreed.  "Well, at least we got a lot of the cleaning done while everyone was being dramatic."

They were sitting in the living room now, having a brandy.  Chris and Blake had already retired to that spare room that had seen so much activity—and none of it sexual!—but Ryan still felt a little too wired to go to bed just yet.  The glasses and cups were in the sink for the cleaning girl the next day, and the empty food trays in a neat pile for the caterers to retrieve. 

"Everyone will remember _this_ party," Simon said.

"Mmm.  Think they'll be all right?" Ryan asked.

"Don't see why not.  What I don't understand is, what are Kim and that Robinson on about?  They behave like a couple, but then they don't."

"It's very strange," Ryan said.  "But, they'll work that out."

"I hope so," Simon said.  "Robinson isn't exactly in a low risk job, out there."

"True," Ryan replied.  "But I'm glad you are."

"Are you really?" Simon asked, grinning.  He swallowed the last of his drink.  "Ready for bed?"

"Bed yes," Ryan said, setting down his glass.  "Sleep, no."

* * *

Kim was surprised when she got up to her room and found Jen and Kat still awake. Jen looked up and gestured to Kim, saying, "You can ask her yourself, here she is."

"Ask me what?" Kim said, taking off her coat.

Kat turned to her, scowling fiercely. "I heard that this party tonight was given by Mr. Cowell?"

Kim looked to Jen, who explained, "She overheard Haley talking about it."

Rolling her eyes, Kim replied, "Yes, it was."

"And why wasn't I invited? When you both were, and Kelly, and even Haley and Gina?"

"I don't think it was your kind of party," Kim replied, and started to undress.

"Oh really? A party full of airmen and show people? What about that wasn't my kind of party?"

"Weren't you with Rabbi Yamin this evening anyway?" Kim asked.

"Don't change the subject, Kimberley."

Kim sighed, and tried to think of the safest way to explain. "Well, you know, Simon Cowell isn't really like other people. And he wanted to be comfortable, and have his guests be comfortable. And part of that was, well, people being able to bring their dates."

"So it was some sort of petting party?" Kat asked. "Jen I could understand, but I wouldn't think that you and Robinson would go in for something so vulgar."

"Katharine," Jen said, "you'd better—"

"Jen, just let it go," Kim said, holding up her hand; one more girl fight this evening she could not take. "No, Kat, it was not a petting party."

"Then why wouldn't people bringing their dates be my sort of party?" Kat asked.

"Because some of the men had men for dates," Kim replied, "and some of the women, women."

Kat cocked her head. "You mean—_Mr. Cowell_?"

"Honestly, Kat, how long have you been in the business?" Jen asked. "Of course Mr. Cowell. The rest of us knew that within five minutes of meeting him."

"And he has a—a male lover? And Paula knew this?"

Kim put her head in her hands. "Yes, she did."

Kat stood up. "Was _everyone_ at this party some kind of deviant?"

"Probably," Jen said.

"Jen, that's not helpful," Kim said. "No, there were plenty of boy-girl couples there."

"But there were more deviant couples than Mr. Cowell and his—oh my God, you don't mean to say that nice Mr. Seacrest?"

"Now her eyes are open," Jen said.

"They're actually very happy," Kim said.

"And there were other people from the show there?" Kat asked.

"Yes."

"And are they—"

"No," Kim replied. "They're just understanding, like Jen and me."

Kat crossed her arms. "You expect me to believe that those airmen like Cook and Robinson and Lewis are 'understanding'?"

Kim shrugged. "You can believe what you want, Kat."

"Well, I think it's disgusting," Kat said, "and I'm glad I wasn't there."

"Then it's a good thing you weren't invited," Kim said.

"No, wait," Jen said. "Let me tell you something, Kat. You can think whatever you want. But there were people at that party who've been through a lot of things, and they just wanted to be happy for a night. And you'd better think about how much you really want to be a singer, because there are plenty of queers in this business, and if you want the good songs, and the good directors, and the good orchestras, you're gonna have to work with them. Billy Strayhorn, the one who wrote half the songs we sing in this show, is a queer, and he ain't the only one."

"I'm sure I can avoid them!" Kat said.

"I'd like to see you try," Jen replied.

"And even if I have to work with them," Kat said, "I wouldn't want to go to a party full of them!" She turned to Kim. "Are you going to tell me who else at that party I should avoid?"

"Of course not," Kim said.

"And why not, if you're so 'understanding?" she asked.

"Because not everyone is," Kim said, "and Simon wanted people to feel safe at his party. But I can't trust you not to spread it around, and that could ruin lives, Kat. You wouldn't hurt Simon, because he gives you lots of attention and praise and time to sing on the radio. And you couldn't get Ryan into trouble without hurting Simon. But other people you could hurt, and not only can't I take that chance, but I wouldn't. They trusted me with their secret and I intend to keep it."

Kat huffed and glared, but Kim just looked her in the eyes, levelly. "Well," Kat said, "you may be comfortable with this, but I am not!"

"You've made that pretty damn clear," Kim said.

"And I don't know how comfortable I am with people who _are_ comfortable with it!"

"That's your opinion," Kim said.

Kat sputtered and scowled. "Well, I'm going to sleep in Paula's old room, and tomorrow I'm telling Randy that I am not renewing my contract with this show. Singing with colored girls is one thing, but this is something else!" She grabbed a pillow and flew out of the room, her feather-trimmed robe swirling out behind her.

Jen turned to Kim. "At least there are only three weeks left," she said. "I can put up with anything for three weeks."

"But I'd hate to end things like this," Kim said. "Maybe something will happen to change her mind."

* * *

_25 October 1940_  
   
Amanda sat atop one of the equipment carts, her feet swinging in time with the tune Castro was playing on his guitar.  Grigsby was nearby filling out a requisition for a few parts they'd run out of; the three usually updated their inventory while the pilots were out on mission, anything to keep their minds occupied.  But this mission was going on for much longer than most did.  Squadron 11 was also out, but they'd left much later.  Some of the Australians and other Canadians in 12 and 14 were going through their checklists, getting ready to head out themselves.   
   
Finally, she saw a few planes silhouetted against the setting sun.  Stacey's three-plane flight was first to land, and as Bice and Young hopped out of their cockpits she noticed that Young was scowling.  The three mechanics hopped up to help bring the planes in, and start going through post-mission checklists.  Cook's flight was just behind them, and Amanda was so busy with her duties that she didn't notice anything amiss until Cook said, "Robinson landed yet?"  
   
"No sir," Castro replied.  
   
"Damn," he said.  "We lost them—Richardson was pulling heavy fire so they were doing evasive maneuvers.  I was hoping they'd beat us back."  
   
Amanda swallowed, hard, and closed her eyes for just a moment, before continuing to work on Rogers' plane.  But their post-mission duties only took so long, and thirty minutes later Robinson's flight, with Chris and Daughtry, still hadn't returned.  
   
The rest of the squadron hung around, tense with waiting.  Cook had radioed Squadron 11, but they had gone in a different direction and hadn't seen a thing.  Blake had hopped up on top of the cart to sit next to Amanda, and she was immensely glad for their cover story, as Blake had tight hold of her hand.  She felt a little guilty, since she loved all the boys, and prayed for the safe return of all of them, but she thought mostly of Chris.  
   
Suddenly Bice shouted, "There they are!"  
   
Amanda looked up in the sky.  One plane was flying very slowly, and she could see another just on its tail, smoke pouring from one engine, and realized why it had taken them so long to get back to base.  She started thinking about how to bring the damaged plane in safely, when Blake said, "oh, shit," low in her ear, and it wasn't until that moment that she understood what he meant.  
   
There were only two planes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It Happened One Night_ (dir. Frank Capra, 1934) is a romantic comedy starring Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable.
> 
> I'll say more on the British laws regarding homosexuality in the commentary rather than go on at length here, but you may have noticed that other than the Pyramid Club, most of this fic takes place in private spaces and very controlled situations. Simon's party is, as Kim points out to Kat, one of those controlled situations.


	12. The Awful Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is revealed.

_25 October 1940_

Amanda immediately jumped up and ran to the landing strip.  The plane in trouble was attempting a landing near the end of the runway, where sandbags had been set up as a barrier.  Some mechanics were clearing a bit of debris that had gathered there, as the area was generally unused, while Castro and Rogers were readying the fire equipment.   
   
The plane sputtered, and Amanda looked up and recognized the little blonde pin-up that decorated Chris's plane, and could see him struggling to keep the craft under his control.  One wing dipped slightly, but he managed to set it down solidly on its wheels, and the plane coasted down the runway, skidding a bit sideways as it went, though it had slowed a great deal before hitting the sandbags.  The boys were spraying down the burning engine before the fire could get any bigger as Amanda made a beeline to the door.   
   
Chris pushed back the glass cockpit and pulled off his helmet, and Amanda's heart came up in her throat as she saw how pale he was.  "Gonna need help getting out," he gasped.  "Bastard shot up my leg." 

"Medics are coming," Amanda replied, hoisting herself up to lean into the cockpit.  The metal frame was hot from the fire, though not so much that it might burn her through her jumpsuit and gloves.

Chris grimaced, and Amanda saw that he was trying to move his leg.  "Think I've done it this time, Amy," he said with a weak smile.

"Naw," Amanda said, keeping her voice steady.  "Remember when you fell outta that tree out at Manchester's farm and landed on your head and we had to keep you up all night 'cause the doc was busy delivering a baby?  I thought your mama was gonna kill me if something happened to you.  'Course, you bein' so hard-headed and all …"

"No harm done," Chris said. 

She bit her lip.  "Didja get 'em?"

Chris grinned.  "Yeah, we did, all three of 'em."

Amanda felt hands pulling her down, and patted Chris's shoulder again.  "Hang in there."  They locked eyes and he nodded.

Medics scrambled up the sides of the plane—the fire was well out by now—and as her boots hit the ground she realized that the rest of the squadron had gathered around, watching as the medics carefully lifted Chris out of the cockpit and onto a stretcher.  His left leg hung limply from the knee, and his trousers were covered in blood, but he was safely landed and still conscious and that was what really mattered.  Blake was standing in the middle of the crowd, his face almost as pale as Chris's, and Amanda's heart went out to him.   
   
Cook walked forward then.  "All right, men, Capt. Johns is waiting for debriefing, same as always."  He stopped, and sighed, and then said, "Remember, it isn't how many of us go home, but how many of them don't."  He walked over to Young, who was staring at the ground, and put a hand on his shoulder as he led the rest of the pilots toward Johns's office.  
   
Amanda looked around then—since Chris had landed she hadn't thought of anything _but_ Chris—and saw Robinson among the crowd of pilots.  
   
"Oh my god," she whispered.  "Daughtry."  
   


* * *

Kim took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.  Tonight was the debut of her new song, the one Carly had suggested, the last song she'd worked on with Paula; it was being given pride of place, at the midpoint of the show.  Randy had held it back, after Paula died, but it had been a month and the company could now absorb a change to the show, which he was putting into the second, later performance. Simon Cowell was sitting in the front with Ryan, Carly and Joel; she'd noticed them earlier.  She stood alone behind the curtain, waiting, nervously wringing her hands, impatient for the dancers to clear the floor from the previous number.  
   
Randy stepped behind the bandstand and looked over at Kim.  "Ready?"  
   
She put her hands down at her sides and straightened a little, tossing her hair, pushing her shoulders back.  "I'm ready."  
   
"_That's_ the way," Randy said, nodding.  
   
She soon heard the band start up to a smattering of applause, and the melody of the chorus playing on the piano.  The curtains parted and the spot landed on Kim, making the beads on her deep blue dress glisten.  A bit more applause as she slowly walked to the single mike on its stand, just in front of the band.  She wasn't directly in front of Simon's table, as the bandstand was a bit to the side, but she turned slightly to sing mostly to him anyway.

[Sophisticated Lady](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Sophisticated_Lady/11032053)

> _They say into your early life romance came  
> And in this heart of yours burned a flame  
> A flame that flickered one day and died away_

 Kim had been nervous backstage but now that she'd started she felt strangely calm and in command, and as a result her performance was better than any rehearsal.  She saw Simon sit up in his chair and take a drag on his newly-lit cigarette.    
   


> _Then, with disillusion deep in your eyes  
> You learned that fools in love soon grow wise  
> The years have changed you, somehow  
> I see you now_

 Carly was smiling encouragement, as were Ryan and Joel, but Simon looked transfixed.  He turned to Carly, who nodded to him, then took another long drag, though his hand seemed to be shaking slightly.  
   


> _Smoking, drinking, never thinking of tomorrow, nonchalant  
> Diamonds shining, dancing, dining with some man in a restaurant  
> Is that all you really want?_

 Kim was singing to the rest of the audience too, and while the crowds were always attentive, they were unusually still now.  
   


> _No, sophisticated lady,  
> I know, you miss the love you lost long ago  
> And when nobody is nigh you cry_

Kim stepped back from the mike as Ricky Smith came forward to play his solo.  She closed her eyes briefly, swaying to the music, smiling at Ricky, catching Randy's eye.  She came back in on the bridge, delivering the "nonchalant" line to Joel as it seemed fitting.  Ryan was still smiling, but Simon was looking straight ahead, staring at Kim, though she wasn't sure he was actually _seeing_ her.  She reprised the last verse, and as the final guitar notes faded, she stepped back slightly from the mike.  
   
The crowd was silent for a moment, but Kim didn't panic, as it _was_ an unusually soft and slow way to begin the second half of the show.  Then to Kim's surprise, Simon stood up and began to applaud.  The crowd followed, roaring and shouting, but Kim only watched Simon, whose eyes glistened. She took her bow, then pointed to Ricky and the band, but when she looked back toward Simon he had left the table.  She saw him moving quickly through the standing crowd to the door, Ryan behind trying to catch up to him.  Kim turned back to Carly, who shrugged.

As Kim's eyes followed Simon to the door she spotted two men in uniform standing in the back.  Robinson and Cook were cheering with the rest, and when he caught her eye, Robinson doffed his cap to her.  She wondered what he was doing in town, why he hadn't let her know, but there was little time for that.  A last bow and she left the stage to let the applause die down before the dancers started their next number.

She passed Kelly backstage, who was to have her own first moment in the spotlight that night—not a solo, but a featured verse in a choral number.  "Did Cook tell you he was coming into the city?" Kim asked her.  
   
"No," she replied, scowling slightly.  
   
"Well, he's out there with Robinson."  
   
Back in the dressing room Kim had a quick change for a three-part number with Kat and Jen.  She was a little apprehensive; there was a definite pecking order among the three singers and Kim was _not_ at the top of it, not to mention that things had been tense with Kat in the week since the party. Though after that first night she had come back to their shared room, Kat hadn't yet gone back to her usual chatty self. 

Kim quickly shimmied out of her dress and stepped into another.  She double-checked herself in the mirror, adjusting her hair slightly, then sped back out to where Kat and Jen waited for her just off stage.   
   
Jen was watching the choral number, her back to the other singers.  "It was real good, Kim," she said softly.  
   
Kat nodded, and squeezed her hand.  "Paula would've been proud," she added as the dancers started running off stage.  
   
"Thanks," Kim said, taking her place on the other side of Jen as the curtain rose.

* * *

Carly had chosen a lovely song, Ryan thought as Kim sang.  He wondered why Simon hadn't thought of it himself, as it suited her so well.  Simon was listening in a way that Ryan had never seen before, and Ryan had watched Simon listen to many things over the past almost-year: playbacks of his own radio program, listening carefully for flaws; new records or new shows, always on the lookout for something new and exciting; in the shelter, listening to the bombs and praying for the all-clear.  But in all those times he'd never seen Simon sit quite so _still_.  After an initial glance at Carly, he stared straight ahead, wide-eyed, taking deep drags on his cigarette.  Ryan looked from him to Kim, but as the song went on he watched Simon out of the corner of his eye.  At the end, Simon jumped up and as he rose Ryan could just see the tear spill down one cheek.  Then, so suddenly Ryan didn't catch it, Simon left, walking away through the standing crowd.  Ryan followed, not trusting Simon to be alone in such an odd mood.  As they neared the back wall Ryan had nearly caught up, when he saw Robinson and Cook.  
   
"Is Kat on tonight?" Cook asked.  
   
Ryan nodded, and indicated the now half-empty table.  "Take our seats," he said, and hurried to catch Simon, who was making for the door.  
   
Outside, Simon leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, then bent his knees and slid down to a crouch.  He wiped his face with one hand.  
   
Ryan stood between him and the door, leaning his shoulder against the wall.  "Kinda chilly out here."  
   
Simon nodded.  
   
"Wanna tell me what this is about?"  
   
Simon took another drag.  "Not particularly."  
   
Ryan nodded, wincing a bit.  "Want me to take you home?"  
   
"No."  
   
He sighed.  "I don't want to leave you alone."  
   
Simon snorted, then looked up at Ryan.  "Good, as I don't want to be alone."  
   
Well, that was something at least.  "Come on, let's go to someone's office, get you some scotch.  You won't have to talk at all."  
   
Simon sat smoking, then tossed the end into the street and rose to his feet.  "No, I'll tell you," he said.  "You deserve to know."  
   
Ryan put an arm around Simon to lead him back inside.  "No hurry," he said.  "We have plenty of time."

* * *

Cook and Robinson had left for London to inform Kat and fetch Carly to Chris's bedside, and for once Amanda was selfishly glad of their ruse, as she _needed_ her girl right now.  The rest of the boys had opened a bottle in honor of their fallen brother-in-arms, drinking toasts in the recreation room.  Young was the recipient of many pats on the back, and as Rogers was tight by his side, watching out for him, Amanda wasn't too worried about Daughtry's best buddy.  While Daughtry had been very popular with the boys in his quiet way, Amanda suspected that the boys were drinking out of their own fear as least as much as for him.    
   
By the time she and Blake, relatively sober, had returned to the on-base hospital, Chris was out of surgery.  "He's resting now," Nurse DeMato said.  
   
Blake took her hand, and Amanda was glad of it.  "Did you—I mean—does he—" But she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.  
   
The nurse patted Amanda's shoulder.  "He's still whole," she said, "but it's early days yet.  He has a steel pin in his leg now.  If all goes well, he'll be walking out of here."  
   
Blake swallowed.  "And flying?"  
   
"We'll have to see about that."  
   
"Can we see him?" Amanda asked.  
   
The nurse thought for a moment.  "Well, he should be waking up shortly.  He's in post-op, which is empty tonight thank goodness."  She led them to a room with two beds against one wall, and two opposite.  Chris was the only one there, his eyes closed and an IV hooked into one arm.  
   
As the nurse left them, Amanda pulled a chair over to Chris's side.  "He sure looks better now," she said, and he did, less pale than he had been when he was sitting in the plane.  
   
Blake perched on one of the other beds.  "Yeah," he replied.  He rubbed his face with one hand.  He hadn't shaved in a day or so and his stubble glistened dark gold in the lamplight.  
   
"You should be sitting here," Amanda said.  
   
Blake waved his hand toward the door, with its small window.  "Anyhow, I'm used to it," he said.  "Hafta be."

"Gee," Amanda said, looking at him.  "You really love him, don't ya?"  
   
He nodded, looking so exhausted and small, his legs swinging as they hung from the side of the bed. "I've never met anyone like him.  Before—out there—when I thought he might not be coming back—"  
   
"He came back," Amanda said firmly.  
   
"I know.  Thank God!  But it makes a man _think_, you know?  Never thought about the future much before I met Chris.  Only ever worried about right now, or maybe next Tuesday, but years from now?  Never."  
   
Amanda shook her head, smiling a little.  "Me neither.  But this one, he was always making plans, since we were kids.  Still does."  
   
They were quite for a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of Chris's chest, listening to him breathe, just needing that reassurance of his _aliveness_.  
   
"Amanda?"  
   
"Yeah?" she asked, looking back up.  
   
"The other night, at that party, you said—"  
   
"I said a lot of junk that I'm not proud of."  
   
Blake waved that away.  "Never mind that.  I meant, about Chris.  You said he's the marrying kind."

 "Sure is," she replied.  "I think the worst of it for him about being a queer and all was that he wouldn't be a daddy.  I said sure he could, but he said he'd never do that to a girl, and just made up his mind to be the best uncle that ever lived.  You should see him with those kids."  
   
"Never thought I'd say this, not in a million years, but I wish I could marry him."  
   
"What's that?" mumbled a soft voice.  
   
Amanda turned.  "Chris!  Oh, Chris," she said, clutching his hand to her cheek.  
   
"Hey there Amy," Chris said.  "How'd I come out?"  
   
"All there," she said.  "Least, as much as you were before."  
   
Chris chuckled, then coughed a bit.  
   
"Here, have a drink of water," Amanda said, holding a cup to his lips.  
   
"I'll get the nurse," Blake said, standing.  
   
"Wait," Chris said, his voice a little stronger for the bit of liquid.  "Now, was that a proposal I heard?"  He smiled, and the twinkle was back in his eyes.

"Leave it to you to wake up then," Blake said.  
   
"Quit stallin'," Chris replied.  
   
Blake scowled.  "I was just—aw, come on Chris Richardson, _you_ know you'd make me just about the happiest man in the world if you could marry me."  
   
Chris's smile grew wider.  "That's a damn good reason to say yes.  Make you happy, and me too."  
   
For the first time in hours, Blake smiled.  "Yeah?"  
   
"Yeah."  
   
"Well!" Blake said, and didn't seem to know what to do with himself.  "I—I'm gonna go get the nurse now!"  
   
"You do that," Chris said, nodding to him.  
   
Blake trotted out of the room, and let out a "whoop!" in the hallway, which was quickly followed by a scolding from the nurse.  
   
Amanda shook her head.  "You sure know how to pick 'em."  
   
Chris grinned.  "I do at that."

* * *

Simon stared into his second tumbler of scotch.  Ryan had brought them back inside and found Ruben, who installed them in his office with a bottle and a set up.  Ryan had been as good as his word, not saying a damn thing.  Outside the room, the show went on, the dim music a kind of comfort.  
   
Thing was, Simon _wanted_ to unburden himself.  Maybe then he'd stop seeing that ghost around every corner, stop having eerie memories of the last war.  The ice bucket rustled as some melting piece settled into a new position, and Simon thought of clocks, and time passing, and cleared his throat.  "His name was Kenneth."  
   
Ryan looked up sharply but said nothing, only nodded.  
   
"I met him at Cambridge.  He was the leader of his little gang. You know the sort.  He was like a magnet—one of those beautiful, laughing boys—and he pulled me in.  Not sure why he picked me, as I was never really one of his followers."  
   
"That's probably exactly why," Ryan said.  "You're no one's sycophant."  
   
Simon cocked his head. "Maybe so.  Anyway, we often went around on our own, rather than with his crowd.  And, well, one thing led to another..."  
   
Ryan smiled.  "Was he the first man you'd—"  
   
"First lover full stop.  Oh, I'd always dated the girls, but I never let things go too far.  Probably why I was popular with them, actually."  
   
Ryan shook his head.  "You're a charmer and you know it."  
   
"But I was very unhappy then.  At school, I mean, not Cambridge."  
   
"Because you were queer?"  
   
"That, and it just all seemed so _pointless_.  Horrible pecking order and we weren't learning anything useful anyway."  
   
"All right," Ryan said.  "Go on."  
   
"People knew—well, some people anyway—but that sort of thing doesn't matter much among certain sets at Cambridge.  Too frightfully middle class to bother with, I reckon.  All those aristos were expected to marry an appropriate girl and further the line, but whomever they chose to have affairs with was their business.  Though I was beginning to think that maybe I didn't want to marry a girl, even if I could have a man on the side."  
   
"Ah.  And Kenneth was one of those aristos?"  
   
Simon nodded.  "First son of an earl.  I thought well, _he'd_ have to marry of course, but there was a chance—not that we could have a life together, not that, but something, and a good deal more than I thought I could have with anyone else."  
   
"You were in love," Ryan said, smiling wistfully.  
   
"Thing was," Simon went on, "1916 was no year to be in love.  Ken had wanted to join up straight away, back in '14, but his father wouldn't allow it—said what the army _didn't_ need was an adolescent officer.  But then lads started dying and we had to go, even if we were all of 20.  Signed up on the same day, then went and got smashed."  
   
"Did you sign up because of him?"  
   
Simon drained his glass and poured another.  "Perhaps.  I thought it was a fairly silly war, and we'd had some arguments about that, but he'd always said I was the practical one in the partnership.  And then we received our assignment, same division, but he was on the front lines.  I was at headquarters, out of the fight, doing clerical work."  
   
"I'm sure it was important, if the army had you doing it."  
   
"Oh it was, truly, and I congratulated myself on being clever enough to keep myself out of the fight.  Not that there weren't bombs flying over our heads, and often.  But no one was shooting at me, and more importantly, I didn't have to shoot at anyone else."  
   
"What did you do?"  
   
"Oh, official paperwork.  Sorting casualty lists by home district, requisitions, telegrams about this or that."  
   
"Casualty lists?"  
   
Simon spoke rather quickly now. "Yes, so in late 1917, we were all excited that you Yanks were coming in, only you hadn't arrived yet, had you?  The boys would come back from the trenches from time to time—by then Ken had a regiment of his own, natural leader and all that, plus so many had died—and if he often vanished with a certain junior officer when he visited headquarters, well, they all preferred not to notice.  And then one afternoon, November actually, there was his name on the daily dispatch."  
   
"Oh Simon—"  
   
"I excused myself and went to the latrine and threw up whatever was left of my breakfast and lunch, had a cigarette, realized there was nothing for it, and went back to work.  That night I sat in my bunk and drank until I could bear going to sleep, though I dreamt of him anyway.  And you want to know the worst of it?"  
   
Ryan said nothing, didn't even shift in his chair.  
   
"I realized that I wasn't clever at all, or doing my part for the army, or any of the other nonsense I'd fed myself since I'd left school.  I was nothing but a bloody coward."  
   
"Simon—"  
   
"No, no, must face facts.  Ken knew it all along, I'm sure of it.  But then, he was the golden boy, and I wasn't.  And you know, I think he loved me anyway."  
   
"Of course he did."  
   
"You would say that," Simon said, giving Ryan a quick flash of a smile. "So I went back to work, eventually came home to England, and decided to be very conventional.  Finished school, married a nice girl, didn't think about love or any of that.  Eventually I was divorced by that nice girl and really who can blame her.  I focused on my career, had a few affairs here and there, nothing of any importance.  And then..."  
   
"And then you met me?"  
   
Simon looked up, looking into Ryan's eyes for the first time since he'd started talking. "And then I met you, and this bloody war started, only this time it's all around us, and I just—it can't happen again.  I won't have it."  He took another drink.  "But I can't very well tell you not to go, can I?"  
   
Ryan leaned forward then, reaching across the desk to take Simon's hand in his own.  "I probably wouldn't listen.  Just like you won't listen when I tell you that I think you're plenty brave.  Just loving someone is brave, you know."  
   
"Ryan, it's hardly the same thing."  
   
"Well, it's true.  And the way you've faced the bombing this summer—you're the strong one.  Everyone else looks to you; I know they do.  I know I do."  He rubbed the back of Simon's hand with his thumb.  "I think you'll have to figure this one out on your own, but at least you know how I feel."  
   
Simon smiled, just a little.  "I think I always knew.  But thanks."  He paused, cocking his head.  "Sounds like the show's ending.  I should go make my apologies to Kim; she was fantastic, and I want to be sure she knows that."  
   
"Did you notice that Cook and Robinson are here?" Ryan asked.  "I wonder what that is about."

* * *

 "Fantastic show, ladies," Randy said when he came backstage.  Now that they were without Paula, everyone else tried to do little pieces of her role—Melinda went from vocal coach and arranger to general sounding board, Brooke started designing costumes as well as making them, naturally shy Mandisa started greeting guests before the show, and Randy gave the singers and dancers their post-show notes.  And this night he was full of praise for Kim's new song.  "You really laid it down, sister!  Talk about _solid_!"

Kim laughed.  "Thanks!"  Looking up, she saw Robinson and Cook in the hall, Carly and Joel just behind them.  "Why didn't you tell me you'd be in town?' she asked. 

"Last minute plan," Robinson replied.  Taking her two hands in his, he went on, "You were truly amazing tonight, Miss Locke.  I'm real glad I was able to be here, whatever the circumstances."

"Oh, thank you!" she said, giving his hands a squeeze.  "But, what circumstances?"

Before he could answer, a shout came from behind them.  "Hey Cook!"  A blur flew past, and Kim turned to see Kelly jumping into the arms of a very surprised Lt. Cook, her rather short dancing costume allowing her to wrap her legs around his waist.  "Whaddya think?" she asked, pulling off his cap and putting it on her own head.

"I think you were pretty fantastic," Cook said. 

"Kim was great too, wasn't she?"

"She sure was," he agreed.

Simon Cowell came into the backstage hallway then, Ryan with him, and walked right up to Kim.  "Miss Locke, I must apologize.  My departure had nothing to do with your performance, which was superb."

"Thank you, Simon," she said.  "I appreciate that."

"I've rarely observed a singer grow as you've done over this past year.  Truly admirable.  You must perform that song on my show.  And Randy, I really think she should record it."

"I was thinking the same thing, Cowell," Randy replied.

"Well!" Kim said.  "Thank you both.  I'm only sorry that you didn't see Kelly."

"Who?" Simon asked, turning in the direction Kim indicated to see Kelly, who'd now slipped down out of Cook's arms.  "Oh!  Yes, of course, and I shall rectify that tomorrow night, I promise."  He smiled at Kelly. "So, what brings you men into the city?"

Cook and Robinson exchanged a look, then Robinson turned to Kim.  "Miss Locke, where is Miss McPhee?"

"Oh, she's changing I expect.  Why?"

"Could you fetch her for us?" he asked.  "Maybe we could talk in Miss Abdul's office?"

"No," Kim replied, her heart dropping at Cook's uncharacteristically serious expression.  "Whatever it is, she'll want to have people around her."  She let go of Robinson and went into the dressing room.  Girls in various states of undress were laughing and smoking as they changed into their after-party clothes.  Jen was near the door, dressed but seemingly in no hurry.

"Your admirers finally let you leave?' Jen asked.

"Um, yes?"

Jen smiled.  "C'mon, I'm just teasing.  You know I'm happy for you."

"I know," she replied, touching Jen's arm.  "Where's Kat?"

Jen gave her a look. "At the mirror, where else? Why?"

Kim walked to the other side of the room, Jen in her wake. "Kat, Cook and Robinson—"

"Want to talk to me?" she asked, her voice hollow.

"Yes," Kim replied.

Kat nodded, her face blank.  "Just let me—" she began, and looked into the mirror to reapply her cherry-red lipstick.  "All set," she said, standing and smiling a little.  "Where are they?"

"In the hall," Kim said, and led her two fellow singers to where the others were still standing.  Kat looked around, hesitating, and then, as she so often did, she went to Simon's side, taking his arm.  "You wanted me?"

Cook and Robinson exchanged glances, then Cook spoke.  "Kat—Katharine—I don't know how—"

"He's gone, isn't he?" she asked with a fixed smile.  "About two o'clock this afternoon?"

Robinson was wide eyed.  "Yes."

Kat nodded.  "Remember, Kim?  I was reading in our bedroom and I came all over cold."

"I remember," Kim said.

"So I decided to take a walk, get some fresh air, and I found myself in that little park he loved.  You know the one, Cook, where we picnicked?"

"I know it," Cook said.  "Very pretty."

"The roses are gone, of course," she said, "but it's still a lovely walk down that central path.  I felt so close to him; it was like he was all around me.  I never thought—" She stopped talking, swallowing hard, and Simon opened his arms to embrace her.  "I never thought he was saying goodbye."  She turned her face into Simon's shoulder, the tears coming now.  "Tell me—do you know?  Was it painful?"

"It was very quick," Robinson said.  "He went after the Kraut who shot up Richardson, and you bet he got him, Miss McPhee, only the other fella got _him_, too."

Kat looked up at that.  "Oh no, Richardson, is he all right?"

Cook nodded.  "When we left he was in surgery—they're tryin' to save his leg.  I'll be taking Carly here back with me to the base."

Kat walked over to Carly and embraced her.  "My prayers are with you both," she said.

"Oh, Kat, thank you," Carly said, returning the hug.  "And ours with you, of course."

Kat nodded and turned to Kim and Jen.  "I'm sorry, I don't think I'll be much for the after-party."

"Of course not," Kim said.

"We'll get you home," Jen said.

"Yes we will," Simon said.  "I have my car here, I'll take you girls straight home.  Ryan?"

"I'll get your things, ladies, and be right behind you," he said, seeming to read Simon's mind.

"Right," Simon said.  "Shall we?"  And off they went, Kat huddled between Jen and Kim, Simon leading the way out the stage door. 

As Kim passed Robinson he gave her arm another squeeze, and she looked back at him, locking eyes until they were out the door.

* * *

It was amazing, Kim thought, how quickly people came together in a crisis.  Any awkwardness from the night of the party was gone as Kat leaned on Simon, Jen and Kim. Ryan had brought not only their things but also Mrs. Studdard, who immediately started bustling in the kitchen making up some tea and toast for Kat.  Rabbi Yamin had been summoned and arrived quickly to counsel his friend through her grief.  Once she'd got home, away from the soldiers, she'd fallen apart all at once, and the rabbi was the only one who could calm her down.  Kat was lying down in Paula's old room; they'd given her something to help her sleep.  Jen was downstairs helping Mandisa clean up after a late supper and had chased Kim out of the kitchen.  Most of the dancers were still out on the town as it wasn't particularly late by show people standards—only about 1 am. 

Kim sat on a chair in the bedroom trying to read, though she felt restless and sad.  She kept thinking about Daughtry and Kat and the little mementos that Kat had been looking at that evening.  If Kim was honest with herself, she'd spent much of the past year being envious of their romance, and she was even now.  She doubted that, as kind as Lt. Cook was, she'd be the first to hear if anything happened to Robinson.  She might merit a quick postcard, and that was what her own memento box was filled with—postcards and some pressed flowers.  She was glad they sang Ellington in the show, rather than Gershwin, as "A Fine Romance" would have been a bit _much_.  It was a little shameful, wallowing in self-pity when poor Kat was the one truly suffering, but there it was.

She was roused from her thoughts by an insistent tapping on the door to the balcony.  Scowling, she walked over, intending to let whichever Smith brother had come to see Jen know exactly what she thought of him.  She opened the door, but couldn't make out the face in the dim light from the street beyond.

"Hello, Miss Locke.  I saw your light on; I hope it isn't too late."

"Robinson?  I thought you went back to the base with Cook and Carly."

"Well, Lt. Cook and I agreed that my talking to you is more important just now, so long as I'm back by 6 am."

"So you climbed the tree?"

"Yes, I did."

"To talk to me?"

"I was worried that Mrs. Studdard might not let me in at this hour."  He turned and looked at the garden and then said, "If I could come in?  It might not be proper and all, but—"

"No, come in, come in, I'm sorry."  Kim indicated a chair and sat down opposite him.  Her mind was a muddle; it was as though she'd summoned him with all her thinking about him.  "Well, I must admit, I'm surprised to see you.  Here, now."  He sat up a bit and she quickly added, "Not that you're unwelcome.  I mean, I'm glad you're here."  She was also glad that upon coming home she'd changed into a day dress, rather than her nightclothes or a housedress.  "Well," she went on, smiling nervously, "I should be quiet and let you say … what you need to say."

Robinson did look a bit tense—she could see it in the set of his shoulders.  He took off his cap and rested it on his knee, and as he started talking he looked around the room—anywhere but at her.  "It's been a real long day, and I've been doing a lot of thinking.  Daughtry, he died keeping Richardson from being even more shot up.  That trip back to the base was pretty slow, let me tell ya, and I could tell Richardson was doing all he could just to say alert and flying.  So I kept him talking, about home, about his girl—meaning Lewis, of course, but just in case anyone was listening."

"Oh those boys," Kim said.  "My heart goes out to them."

"Well, that's the thing right there, Miss Locke.  Daughtry—it's terrible, but Miss McPhee knows how he felt about her, and he knew how she feels about him.  And Richardson and Lewis—they have so much against them, but they know, too."  He chuckled.  "I told Richardson if he didn't stay with me and get back to the base Lewis would get hopped up on Baby Ruths and fly across that Channel and shoot down every Kraut he could find, single-handed."

Kim smiled.  "He definitely would."

Robinson sobered.  "But that could have been me today, and you wouldn't have known.  So I made up my mind to come here and tell you."

Kim's mouth was dry.  She blinked; she could scarcely breathe.  "Tell me what, Robinson?"

He looked up then, straight into her eyes.  "That I love you, Kimberley Locke, and if you could find it in your heart to care for me—"

It was like an enormous weight had been lifted, and she might float right out of the chair.  The words bubbled up; she couldn't have stopped them if she tried.  "Find it in my heart?" she asked.  "Anwar Robinson, you'd better kiss me."

Robinson's eyes flew open, and he started to say something, but thought better of it and did as Kim suggested.  They each leaned forward in their chairs, hands reaching out to balance on shoulders.  To her surprise, it _was_ different than any other kiss she'd ever had.  Was it because she felt so much, or their circumstances?  Did it matter?

"What were you waiting for?" Kim asked between soft, slow kisses.

"Glamour girls like you don't go for squares like me," he replied.  "Unless they have money."

"See, I thought it was that Morehouse boys didn't go for Spelman girls unless _they_ had money."

"Guess I'm not like other Morehouse boys."

"And I'm not like other glamour girls."

"Come over here," he said, sliding his hands from her shoulders past her waist under her bottom and lifting her into his lap.  She straddled him, her dress sliding up her thighs.  "Shameless," he said, grinning.

"Now I am," she replied, and kissed him again. 

They sat in that chair for a bit, necking like teenagers on a front porch, quiet and a little breathless, Robinson's hands still on Kim's hips, while hers were wrapped around his shoulders.  Kim wanted as many kisses as possible, so when Robinson broke off she sighed in frustration.  "I should go," he said.

"What?" she asked.  "Why?"

"I should go before, well, before something else happens."  He turned to the side, bashful.

Kim smiled, and used one hand to turn his head so he was looking at her again.  "Stay."

"But—"

"You love me, right?"

"Yes."

"You're going to make an honest woman of me."

"Of _course_!"

"Then the way I figure it," she said, standing up and moving away from the chair, "we have two hours before you have to catch a train, and I want you here for all of that."  She stopped when she reached her own bed, and held out her hand.  "Stay."

"But Kat—"

"She's sleeping in Paula's old room."

"And Jen?"

Kim couldn't help but smile a little.  "Don't worry about her."

Robinson looked at her, considering, and then stood, taking off his jacket and laying it over the back of the chair.  He walked toward her, toward the bed.  "All right, I'll stay," he said, and kissed her.

* * *

"What a _night_," Ryan said as he walked in the door of Simon's flat.

Simon grunted in agreement and slumped onto the couch, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. 

Ryan squatted at Simon's feet, his hands on Simon's thighs.  "C'mon, let's go to bed."

Simon looked down at Ryan and sighed, then nodded and allowed Ryan to lead him into the bedroom.  There, he sat on the bench at the foot of the bed as Ryan carefully disrobed, hanging up his formal suit, putting his shoes and Simon's on the tree in the wardrobe, shirt, undershirt and socks in the hamper, tie and sock garter on their racks, studs and cufflinks in their boxes on the bureau.  Then he began to do the same for Simon.

"You with me, darling?" Ryan asked, untying Simon's tie and taking off his jacket. 

"Yes, why?" Simon asked.

"Not like you to be so quiet," Ryan said.

Simon blinked.  "I was just thinking about how freakishly tidy you are," he said, taking off his trousers and handing them to Ryan. 

"Ah," Ryan replied, smiling.  "I just like my nice things to stay nice."

"Hmm," he replied, lifting his leg to remove his sock and garter.  "And all right, yes, you're handsome."

Ryan beamed at the rare compliment.  "Why, thank you," he replied.  "Now what is it you really mean to say?"

Simon scowled.  "I said what I meant."

Ryan shook his head.  He stood in front of Simon, hands on his shoulders, then bent over to put his head in line with Simon's.  "Hey," Ryan said gently.  "Look at me."  When Simon turned he continued, "You're stalling again.  Just say it."

Simon looked up.  "I—" he began, then cleared his throat.  "I simply can't understand how you can listen to all my cowardice and then say I'm brave.  Either you're mad, or I am."

"Maybe we both are," Ryan replied, and kissed him.  "I also don't happen to think that charging out of a trench into no-man's-land is the only way to show how brave you are, or even the best way."  He stood up straight.  "Now off with that shirt."

Ryan watched Simon remove his studs and cufflinks and tried to think of an example he wouldn't scoff at.  "You know that night your square was hit?"

"Yes," Simon replied, handing his formal accessories to Ryan to put away.

Ryan walked to the bureau, knowing it was easier for Simon without eye contact.  "And we were tucked in that corner of the tube station—"

"—and you kissed me," Simon said.

"Excuse me?" Ryan asked, turning.  "_You_ kissed _me_."

"However you like," he replied, waving his hand. 

Ryan took the shirt that Simon was shrugging off.  "Well, you made me feel safer."

He heard Simon tsk at that.  "Being in _these_ arms made you feel safer?  Right."

Ryan turned back around.  Simon had removed his undershirt, and a bare-chested Simon was definitely something Ryan liked to stare at, so he did.  "Yes, Simon," he replied.  "I was scared and you calmed me down.  Really."

"Oh," Simon said.  "Well.  All right then, I'm not going to disbelieve you."

"Good," Ryan said, shutting the wardrobe door.  He slid off his boxers and walked over to the bed, enjoying being ogled in his turn.  "So you'll let me take care of you tonight?" he asked.

"Actually," Simon said, sliding back under the covers, "I wish you would."

* * *

Nurse DeMato was quite young, recently trained and recruited in Canada, and given that the recovery ward was still empty save for Chris, willing to let Blake and Amanda sit quietly with him until they went on duty at 6 am. She checked on Chris once an hour but otherwise left them alone. So the door opening only a few minutes after her 1 am check was surprising.

"Don't you worry," she was saying. "His pals have been taking good care of him." She smiled at them, and ushered in Carly, Lt. Cook just behind her.

Carly eyes met Amanda's for just a second before turning to Chris. "How are you feeling?" she asked, taking Amanda's place at his side.

"They patched me up," he said. "Got some hardware in me, is all."

Carly's eyes shone in the low light. "I'm just so happy you're all right," she said.

"So am I," Cook said, patting him on the shoulder.

"How'd it go with Kat?" Chris asked.

"She's a braver girl than I gave her credit for," Cook replied. "And she has friends—Cowell swooped right in to take care of her."

Carly nodded. "That's what he does."

"Robinson's not with you?" Blake asked.

Cook smiled slightly. "We agreed that he had better stay in London and see to his Miss Locke. That is, make her _his_ Miss Locke, I should say."

"Cook, you are doing the Lord's work today," Blake said.

"I do what I can," he said with a little incline of his head. "Which reminds me, Nurse DeMato and I have talked, and we agreed to give you folks a bit of privacy." He winked at her and she blushed.

"Provided," she said, "that you all stay quiet and calm, and keep _him_ quiet and calm. Won't do to have any ripped stitches."

"We'll behave ourselves, ma'am," Amanda said solemnly.

Cook followed Nurse DeMato out the door, pulling down the little shade on its window as he left. The four friends all looked at each other, stunned to be alone, and then in a flurry of motion Blake rushed to Chris's side and Amanda to Carly's.

"Rich," Blake said tenderly, holding Chris's hand. "Why'dya have to go and do a thing like this?"

"Doesn't look like I'll be doing it again," Chris replied, "if that makes you feel better."

"Don't even think that," Blake said. "You'll be out hunting Krauts in no time. I'm just sorry I can't personally tell the one who got you just what I think of him."

Amanda smiled—she felt the same damn way, but since they'd arrived in England she'd gotten more used to this new kind of powerlessness. She and Carly sat on the other bed, hand in hand, and Carly was warm and soft next to her.

"I'm glad you're all right, too," Carly said to her.

"I am," she replied, "now that I know my boy is. Or, I guess he's really your boy. Except of course that he's Blake's." She shook her head. "Gosh."

Carly kissed her temple. "Sometimes I feel like all of us belong to each other, all four of us together."

"Me too," Blake said, looking up at them.

Amanda cocked her head, wondering about that, and caught Chris's eye. He looked relaxed, rough edges smoothed by the narcotics flowing into his arm, but not sleepy, and he was smiling, holding Blake's hand tight. She smiled back, and it was like that perfect sunlit day back in May, swimming in that cold brook at the estate, the four of them together. She turned to Carly, who pulled her into a sweet and loving kiss that she was reluctant to break off.

"Don't stop on account'a us," Chris murmured.

"Yeah," Blake added. "Chris here's not up to much more than kissing, or we'd be doing the same."

"I think we're all in the mood for some celebration of life," Chris added.

"I'm pretty sure that when our reverend talked about celebration of life he didn't mean Sapphic love," Amanda replied.

"Well I _do_," Chris insisted. "C'mon, Amy, you always like to have an audience."

Blake said, "And Carly, you just said—"

"I just said," she whispered.

Amanda turned, glancing up at the clock on the wall, and saw that it was only 1:15. "What was it you were saying?" she asked Carly, and kissed her.

* * *

Kimberley had been to petting parties in college with her then-boyfriend, and had fooled around with a few boys here and there in Harlem. But she'd decided to save her virginity for marriage, corny as that was, and now she was so glad she'd waited. Robinson removed her clothes almost reverently, stroking his hands across each bit of newly exposed skin. She did the same, marveling at the strong body that was only hinted at by his shape in uniform.

They were in the bed now, kissing, and she could feel him hard against her. But it wasn't alarming in the least, as it had been in the past, or annoying, like an obligation she had to fulfill. It excited her, that she had done this to him, and she couldn't wait to feel him inside her. He was humming softly, and she found herself doing the same, as if they'd already said all the words, or written them, and there was no need for speech now. His hands were everywhere, rubbing her breasts, her legs, the side of her face, stroking her hair. Mostly she concentrated on kissing him, now that she finally could, and arched up against him, loving the feel of him, solid against her. She'd already been so bold, asking him to stay, that she figured it didn't matter how bold she was in bed. She was so excited, so wet, she was sure she was dripping all over the sheets.

The room had always been a bit drafty, but the cool air felt good against her skin. He rolled them so that he was on top of her, and feeling his weight above her excited her even more. He slid down, kissing along her neck, then sucked the nipple he'd been rolling between his fingers into his mouth. She rubbed her hands through his close-cropped hair, loving the rough feel of his natural hair. But when one hand started to slip between her legs she grabbed his wrist.

He looked up, and she shook her head. "I've done that," she said. "I want you inside me."

"I wanted to—"

"I know," she said, smiling, stroking her hand along his cheek. "Next time."

He smiled, and she thought about next time, about thousands of next times with this man, and she could scarcely breathe.

He kissed her again, and she spread her legs so he could settle his body between them. He shifted, and then he was entering her, sliding so slowly into the slick channel. It did ache a little, feeling him stretching her open, his flesh pushing aside her own, but it also felt good in a way she couldn't quite pinpoint. Not like an orgasm felt good, increasing sensation building to an explosion, but now she understood the way that Jen would stretch like a cat after a visit from one of the Smith cousins.

"You okay?" he asked.

"You bet," she said.

"You're sure? I'm going to move now."

Kim slid her hands down from his shoulders to his behind, the behind she'd been thinking about for months. When she grabbed hold, his eyes grew wide. "Go ahead and move," she whispered.

He stared at her, his eyes dark, and she shuddered. He pulled back, thrusting up into her. If she'd thought it was exciting before, it was almost overwhelming now, feeling him inside her, his muscles working under her hands. He was resting on his elbows, his hands under her shoulders, and he was hot and lovely above her, grunting as he thrust into her. His eyes were moving from her face to her breasts, which were quivering with the force of his thrusting.

She kissed his forehead, and moved her lips to his ear. "Harder," she whispered, kissing him.

He started moving harder and faster, and oddly the constant motion was easier to take, and she settled into his rhythm, rocking with him, almost as though they were dancing. He sped up a bit more, and then he stopped, pushing into her and shouting into the pillow. She felt a little ripple go through her as he pushed up and into her, so she pushed up into him, too.

He collapsed on top of her, panting, then rolled over, pulling her with him. "Kimberley," he said, looking up at her, their faces close together inside the curtain of her hair. His arms slid up and down her body. "God, you're so beautiful."

She smiled, stretching out on top of him. "So are you."

* * *

Carly was wearing a shirtwaist dress with buttons all down the front, green, a particular favorite of Amanda's. Knowing Carly, she'd asked Cook to take her home so she could change out of the evening clothes she was wearing at the Pyramid. And, knowing Carly, she'd worn this dress just for Amanda. It had a fullish skirt that fell nicely past her hips, a slight tuck at the waist, and darts that swelled out around her breasts. Amanda liked laying Carly down on the bed in a dress like that, and unbuttoning it slowly, from the bottom. The dress was structured such that Carly often didn't wear a girdle under it, but just a bra and panties, which made the disrobing even better.

This night, though, they didn't have that much time, so Amanda couldn't linger over the dress, but made quick work of all those buttons, as Carly did of the zipper of her jumpsuit. "I haven't seen you in one of these since I met you," Carly said.

"How do you like it?" Amanda asked.

Carly grinned. "It suits you," she said, pulling her into a kiss, while slipping her arms around Amanda's back to take off her bra.

"Cotton stockings?" Amanda asked as she slid them off.

"It's cold outside!"

"Are you cold now?" Amanda asked, pushing off her jumpsuit and her panties along with it.

"No," Carly replied, glancing over at Chris and Blake, still watching. "Not at all."

Amanda got back onto the bed, kneeling above her, and took a good look at Carly, at the creamy skin that glowed in the dim light, the dark hair on her head and between her legs, the nipples only a little rosier than her cheeks. "So you don't need me to come warm you up then?" she asked, grinning.

"Get over here," Carly said, almost growling, and Amanda did as she was told, lowering herself on top of the other woman so their legs were entwined, their breasts rubbing against each other. Not only wasn't there time enough, but Amanda wasn't inclined to tuck her face between Carly's legs—lovely as that was, she needed to be face to face, quim to quim, everything to everything, embracing her girl. They kissed, and kissed some more, deep long soft wet kisses.

Then Carly started to move, thrusting up against Amanda, and Amanda pushed back, until they were shamelessly rubbing against each other's thighs, pressing their legs together to get just the right angle, swallowing their moans in kisses. Sweat made them slide against each other easier, sweat and the wetness between their legs, and they moved faster, really rutting against each other, though they were being careful not to let the bed squeak and give them away.

Carly's orgasm started first, her thighs clenching tighter around Amanda, her movements becoming erratic, and then Amanda went, wave after wave crashing over her head, those smaller ones building, building, just concentrate on Carly and the smell of her hair, and how she shudders, and—there.

She looked up—she must have buried her head in Carly's shoulder at some point, and she hoped they hadn't been too noisy—and Carly had stopped moving, too. Instead she was looking at Amanda with a lazy smile. "Good?" she asked.

"So good," Amanda said, kissing her neck. "So beautiful."

Carly beamed then, a megawatt smile, and flushed a little. "Thank you."

Amanda looked over her shoulder and checked the clock—no rush, but they should get dressed. She kissed Carly again, then reluctantly got up, handing Carly her under things from where they had scattered on the bed and the floor. As she slipped on her panties, she said, "How'd you like _that_ show, boys? Better than the hoochie-coochie, I'd reckon."

Chris smiled. His lips were just a little redder than before, and Carly was willing to bet they'd shared some kisses while the girls were otherwise occupied. "And how," he said. "Maybe someday we'll return the favor."

"Under different circumstances, I'd hope," Carly said.

"Amen to that, sister," Blake said, squeezing Chris's hand.

"We'll just have to find a way to stick together," Amanda said.

Blake nodded. "I have an idea."

* * *

Ryan Seacrest really was quite a handsome man. The problem was he knew it, right down to the decimal point, which is why Simon rarely mentioned it. Of course Simon knew that he himself was handsome, but he didn't go around _thinking_ about it. But Ryan, with all that Hollywood good side/bad side nonsense—and who was even looking at him? He was on the radio, for goodness sake! But Simon had a tendency to stare, which Ryan noticed, which made actually complimenting Ryan on his looks utterly superfluous. Well, Simon knew when he was beat, and that was an early point to Seacrest.

Over the year they'd developed little code words and phrases; one of these was "take care of you." Outside of bed, it meant "you are too busy working to realize that you have caught a dreadful cold, or the flu, and you will go home and go to bed and I will bring you soup and clean handkerchiefs and cold compresses if necessary, and perhaps even read to you from a melodramatic novel that will amuse us both." In the bedroom, it meant "Lie back; you don't have to do anything."

So after a good bit of snogging and groping and messing about, Simon lay in the bed, on his back, and Ryan was sitting on his thighs, looking down at him and smiling. He took a scoop of Vaseline with his right hand and slicked Simon's cock until it shone in the lamplight. He reached for it again, but Simon stopped him, saying, "I'll do this bit."

Ryan raised his eyebrows. "Okay," he said, handing Simon the jar. He crawled forward so he was straddling Simon's stomach, putting his arms down on either side of Simon's head.

Simon put his slick fingers to Ryan's little hole, stretching it slowly, enjoying Ryan's little gasps and moans as he did so. Ryan arched his back, pushing into Simon's hand, and tipped his head back, eyes closed. Simon used his three fingers to fuck Ryan, in and out, until finally Ryan said, "Enough." He smiled, and kissed Simon. "Enough."

He sat up on his knees and handed Simon the hand towel he always brought to bed, fastidious sort that he was, so Simon could wipe his hand. Ryan pulled up, positioned Simon's slick cock at his entrance, and started to slide down, letting gravity help him. He took it slow, not so much of necessity as Simon knew he had prepared him well, but for the pure pleasure of it. Simon was glad to go slow, too, to feel that exquisite tightness all around his cock.

Once Ryan was sitting flush on Simon's hips, he shifted a little, as if to get used to Simon's cock inside of him. Then he brought the hand he'd used to slick Simon's cock to his own and slowly stroked himself as he rode Simon. His strong thighs lifted him up and down, and after a few teasingly slow strokes he began to go faster, getting himself into a steady rhythm. Simon rubbed Ryan's thighs, feeling the muscles working, then slid up to hold him by the waist, steadying him, allowing him to go faster. Ryan took his other hand and slid it between his legs to fondle his testicles, just like Simon liked to when he was sucking him off. Ryan's skin was less golden than it had been when he'd arrived a year ago, and his hair was darker from the lack of sun. But his muscles were still taut and strong, his thighs and stomach contracting as he pulled himself up and down, his arm flexing as he stroked himself. He was looking down at Simon with his wide smile, and Simon could scarcely breathe with all of it, with how Ryan was doing all the work and putting himself on display, so Simon could just lay back and stare to his heart's content.

He could tell from the way that Ryan was moving that he was close, and Ryan moved his hands from his cock, grabbed hold of Simon's forearms, and started bouncing, hard and fast, almost growling, and Simon thrust up into him. Simon shouted as he came, and Ryan came almost at the same time, his semen splattering across Simon's chest and belly.

Ryan plopped down on the bed next to Simon, and they both took a few minutes to catch their breath. They wiped themselves off with the towel and tossed it onto the floor, and Ryan cuddled into Simon's side. "Thank you," Simon said, wrapping an arm around Ryan.

"Yeah, I just did that for you," he replied. "Not like I got any pleasure out of it."

Simon chuckled. Ryan was running a hand through the hair on Simon's chest, dreamily; he always got so thoughtful after sex, which Simon found rather adorable.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" Ryan asked.

"What?" Simon asked, surprised at the word.

"You are," Ryan insisted. "Your skin—it's like your whole body is blushing. And your eyes flash. And I can't seem to keep my hands off your chest."

"So I've noticed."

Ryan lifted up his head. "Simon, I'm serious! You are! I know it isn't very manly—"

"Not really, no."

"But to me, you are." Ryan rested his chin on top of his hand, on Simon's chest, that determined look in his eye.

"Well," Simon said, knowing when he was beat, "all right then."

"All right," Ryan replied, and slid up to kiss him, and Simon stopped worrying about being manly. For a little while, at any rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Awful Truth_ (dir. Leo McCarey, 1937) is a romantic comedy starring Irene Dunne and Cary Grant.


	13. Now, Voyager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weddings and departures.

_31 October 1940_

It was Kim's first night off since she had become engaged, and she and Jen were getting ready to meet Carly and Giuliana for dinner. Kim was excited—she could scarcely believe that it had happened, that Anwar was really hers; after all, she didn't even have a ring. But the phone calls she'd received over the last week had to be proof of something.

She and Jen were both surprised when Katharine came into their bedroom, dressed in black as she had been all week. Since Daughtry's death she'd been spending most of her off hours with Rabbi Yamin, distracting herself from her grief by helping the children in his care, and Kim was surprised to see her in the house on their day off. They'd invited her to the dinner out of some mixture of loyalty, manners, and sympathy, but she'd declined.

"Girls, I—I want to apologize," Kat said, looking down at the floor.

"Apologize for what, honey?" Jen asked.

"Well, with Christopher gone, and this war and all, and I just think—I think that people find happiness where they find it." She sat down on her bed. "I've been talking to Rabbi Yamin, and the way he answers the questions is so different than the priests back home. And then I think about these poor little children and how the church isn't helping them or their families. So maybe I don't know so much after all." She sighed. "If Ryan is what makes Mr. Cowell happy, and they're both good men, aren't they?"

"They are," Kim said, sitting down next to her.

"But you were right, Kim," she said. "I don't want to know about any of the others. I don't think I can be as understanding as you are."

Kim nodded.

Kat turned her head. "And before you say it, Jen, I don't want to sing anymore."

"Kat, I was just angry—"

"Oh, not because of these queers," Kat replied. "There are simply better things, more important things, for me to do with my energies. I think I'll stay here and help the Rabbi. He's been so much help to me, you see, and I want to really _do_ something in this war. Carry on for Chris, but in my own way. And—" She paused for a moment, and Kim took her hand. "And it was the last thing we did together, working there, so it makes me feel close to him."

"Oh, Kat," Kim said, "I'm so sorry."

"I hope you girls understand why I decided not to go to dinner tonight," she said, sniffling. "But I'll be honored to attend your weddings. I just need a little time."

"Of course," Jen said.

Kat pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "Give Carly and Giuliana my love," she said, rising. "I'm off to talk to Randy now."

"Good luck," Kim said as she left.

Their encounter with Kat made Kim and Jen a little late for dinner, so Carly and Giuliana were already seated when they arrived. Kim just put up her hand and said, "Don't ask!"

"All right," Carly said. "Anyway, Jen, you said you had news!"

Jennifer grinned broadly, then said, "Looks like all the girls at this table are engaged!"

Carly and Giuliana gasped, and Kim had to chuckle at their reaction.

"But which one was it?" Giuliana asked.

"Neither, thank you very much," Jen replied. "I'm marrying George Huff."

"Oh, I always liked him," Giuliana said. "So kind."

"I don't understand," Carly said.

"What, that someone would marry me?" Jen asked.

"No, that you'd say yes," Carly replied. "You just never seemed the type. And George is so quiet, I never thought you'd noticed him."

"Jen, you have to admit, it's very surprising," Kim said gently. "I don't think the Smith boys took it too well, either."

"Oh, they'll be fine," Jen said with a wave of her hand. "Better than if I _had_ chosen one of them over the other. Those boys need to find themselves some twin sisters, is what they need to do."

"How did you even begin?" Carly asked.

"Well, I admit, I was getting tired of Ricky and Nicky and trying to choose between them, and George was just sort of always there, you know? And after Paula left us, I just realized it was time to stop all the running around. Oh, it was fun at the time, don't get me wrong!" Jennifer laughed. "But I was ready to do something else."

Giuliana smiled. "So when you brought him to the party—"

"It was our first date! I had been talking to George at dinner, before Simon's party, and he said he wasn't any too enthusiastic about attending the party at the band house. And I said well, we could go to Simon's party, but it depended on how he felt about, well, _you know_. And he asked me just what profession I thought we were in."

"Mmm-hmm," Kim said.

"And I just looked at him, and he grinned at me, and suddenly so many other things looked different. I fell, just like that, all at once!"

"But are you sure, Jen?" Carly asked. "That you're really in love?"

Jennifer sat back in her chair, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Yes," she replied. "But that isn't even all my news! We're moving to Chicago, beginning of December."

"So we'll all be together!" Giuliana said.

"My people are there," Jennifer said, "and I still have some friends in the clubs. A girl singer and a piano player can work up a good act, especially if that singer and piano player are me and George."

Kim smiled at Jen's usual lack of modesty. "We'll have to try to find apartments near each other," she said.

"Now Carly," Jen said, "are you sure you want to live in the Negro part of town?"

Carly shrugged. "I'm sure that I want to share a flat with Kim," she replied. "She said she'd keep house for us, and after being spoiled by Joel's cooking, I don't want to go back to my own!"

"I hope you won't be so busy cooking that you neglect your studies," Giuliana said.

Kim shook her head. "Law school will be my top priority, I promise," she replied. "Besides, I'll need something to keep me busy while Robinson is away, for however long. Now, how is the job search going?"

"Ryan is very well connected," Carly said. "He got our tapes to the right people, and we have three interviews at the beginning of December!"

"I'm so glad you decided to come to America," Giuliana said.

"Well, the marriage makes it easier," Carly replied, "but I'm glad, too. Make all the changes at once! Oh, which reminds me, Kim, did you talk to Robinson?"

"Yes, and we'd be happy to have our ceremony with you," she said. "It makes sense, since we'd all be getting married at the base, and the same people would be there anyway. Might as well just have one cake, in these days of rationing."

"One negro couple and two queer couples," Jen remarked, smiling and shaking her head. "This sure isn't going to be your ordinary wedding."

"Is Amanda sorry to miss on the planning?" Giuliana asked.

"Are you joking?" Carly replied. "Amanda hates this sort of thing. She's very grouchy about having to coordinate the food, but she's there on the base so Kim and I said she had to do it. Blake said he practically had to tie her down to get her measurements for her wedding dress! But I think the wedding makes her look a bit more female to her bunkmates, and that's all to the good."

"I'm pleased Brooke could make those dresses for us," Kim said. "She's so fast with our costumes."

"I'm sure it's a nice change for her to make real dresses, no sequins or anything," Jen replied. She leaned forward. "So what I want to know is, what's your old-new-borrowed-blue?"

"My new is the dress," Giuliana said, "and I have my mother's earrings which are old, and I'm borrowing Papa's watch, and my flowers will be blue."

Carly said, "My dress is blue, and my shoes are new. I'll wear my grandmother's cross, and Simon is lending me a handkerchief."

"Let's see," Kim said, cocking her head. "New dress, and Jen is lending me a necklace, and I have an old hair comb I'll wear, and my lingerie is blue."

"Ooh," Carly said, "wedding lingerie!"

Kim looked around the table. "Didn't you all get some for _your_ wedding night?"

"I did," Jen said, "but you know that sort of thing leads to babies."

"Well, for some of us," Kim said, smiling at Carly.

"No, no," Carly said. "Perhaps not on our wedding night, no, but we do plan to have children."

Jen sat back at that. "The four of you all together?"

"Yes," Carly said, nodding.

"Well," Kim said, "don't that beat all!"

Carly raised her glass. "Here's to—what do you call them, Giuliana?"

"Bambinos," she replied.

Carly nodded. "Here's to bambinos!"

* * *

_19 November 1940_

Ryan always thought of that fall as a series of weddings and departures. Even the Luftwaffe seem to have departed; the raids decreased in November and while there was still some danger, it wasn't a daily presence in their lives. The new battlefield against the Germans was not in Europe but in North Africa, where they had taken possession of the French colonies. Ryan thought about following Montgomery's troops, but NBC wanted him to wait, and head out with American troops later, whenever that might be. Besides, his life was here in London, with Simon. He and Joel were making plans to go back to the States for the Christmas holidays, and bring small David with them. Ryan wanted Simon to come, too, but he was being evasive, so Ryan left him alone.

Giuliana's wedding was simple and beautiful, as anyone would expect. It was quite small, just BBC people, Bill's London friends, the singers from the revue, and a few clients of her father's; Carly was maid of honor. After, there was a party at a local Italian restaurant run by a friend of the family, and Ryan was happy to eat until he was stuffed with pasta and cookies. The couple left to spend their honeymoon in New York City before settling in Chicago.

Sig. DePandi was bringing Diana over to Chicago himself, after her term was over in December. Small David was, as usual, determined to act like an adult, and had already proposed to the girl; he was eager to meet her people in the States over the Christmas holidays to make it official. Given the war, there were plenty of kids getting married all over, so Ryan didn't have it in him to stop them. Besides, Diana was just the sort of resourceful, sweet, level-headed girl that small David needed to keep him grounded and remind him not to go overboard with the self-sacrifice.

And then, shortly after the wedding, Simon stepped into Ryan's office and suggested they go home for lunch. They'd done this a few times before, when work was a little slow and Simon was feeling frisky, but Ryan didn't see that secret gleam in the other man's eye this time. He said nothing on the quick Tube ride, or in the elevator, and Ryan grew more nervous in the silence. Simon poured them each a drink, and sat them down on the couch. If he weren't so sure of Simon, especially lately, Ryan would have thought he was about to get the heave-ho. He sipped his scotch, and waited.

Simon stood up and started pacing. "Remember last month, when you said that I'd have to figure it out for myself?" he asked.

"Yes," Ryan said. "I also said I already think you're brave."

He smiled a little at that. "Thank you. Well, I thought about that, about what you've said, and what you've done, and what kind of man I want to be, and then I started talking to Nigel."

"Okay," Ryan said.

"And we talked about what I could bring to the war effort, especially now that British troops are moving overseas, to North Africa and Burma and what not. So I made a proposal to the Army, and they've accepted."

"A proposal to do what?" Ryan asked.

"Oh, sorry. To put together a little company, to tour around the bases, bring the troops a bit of entertainment and take their minds off things. I mean, by now I know nearly all the show people in London, and we've already lived through such danger here, what's a little more?"

"Right, sure," Ryan said. He felt—well, he didn't really feel anything at all, which was strange. "So how long have you been working on this?"

"I haven't—I just got the go ahead from the Army this morning. Nigel wants to do some broadcasts on the Armed Forces stations as well, real morale builder. But he's the only other person who knows. I didn't want to tell you in case it didn't go through, but now it has, and I'm telling you."

"When are you to leave?" Ryan asked.

"The goal is to be able to tour around Christmas time," Simon replied.

Ryan nodded. "So that's why you couldn't say yes or no to coming to the States."

Simon sat down next to Ryan. "If it hadn't gone through, I would have been very happy to go. And I'm still—Ryan, I'm still pleased that you asked me to come with you. I'm sorry, now, that it will have to wait until this war is over."

Ryan took Simon's hand in his own, and tried to work out how he was feeling. "I'm damn proud of you, Simon," he said, his voice wavering a bit. He cleared his throat. "Won't be the same without you."

Simon sat back a little, looking at Ryan. "I'm not leaving _you_, you know. You can't get rid of me that easily. I just have to do this."

"I understand," Ryan said. "Believe me, I do. Just let me be good and selfish for the next month, to get it out of my system, and by the time you go, I'll be fine." He smiled. "Now I know how you felt when I wanted to go to Paris."

"No," Simon said. "You're taking it much better than I did. And don't think I don't know that as soon as you Americans come into the fight, you'll be off for who-knows-where."

"How's your letter writing?" Ryan asked.

"Terrible!" Simon replied. "Ask Mother. But how could I not write to you?"

"You'd better," Ryan said, "or I'll come find you."

"I believe that," Simon said.

* * *

_25 November 1940_

It didn't seem quite right to Amanda to be getting dressed for her wedding in the same room as Carly. Ever since Blake made his suggestion, Amanda had thought of the wedding as her getting married to Carly. But of course that wasn't true. And as much as she wished she could have worn her snazzy tuxedo—now safely in storage with Simon Cowell—Chris noted that then Blake would have worn a dress, and no one wanted _that_.

Clothing coupons had been saved so that all three girls could have new dresses, though they of course couldn't have ivory satin. Amanda could have worn her dress uniform, but opted instead for a pretty new dress in deep red, as it would please Carly more. Carly was in blue, of course, and Kim in violet. Amanda hadn't slept with curlers for years, and had had to borrow some from her bunkmates. But now, after Kelly had brushed her hair out, Amanda saw the same girl in the mirror she'd seen before her coming out ball eight years ago. She felt the same nerves, the same comfort that Chris stood just outside that door, and she thought about what Carly had said, that they were all four of them together. Odd, that it was the most unconventional part of this which could bring them, full circle, back to some kind of conventional arrangement.

But Amanda would much rather look at Carly anyhow, in her smart blue dress, long black hair in deep waves like a movie star, like that first night at the club. Carly-the-glamour-girl and Carly-the-working-lady had long since melded in Amanda's mind, so that she could see the beauty even when Carly reined it in with professional suits and sensible shoes, and she was still a little ashamed to think of how superficial she had been, and how lucky she was that Carly had knocked her out of it. Well, Carly, and Chris, and Blake, and that was the whole point.

She stood and shook to get any last minute wrinkles out of her skirt, and looked over at the others. "Oh Kim," she said, "you look lovely."

Kim smiled, and stood herself. "That's quite a compliment!" she replied. "Not just from a lady such as yourself, but also because you took your eyes off Carly long enough to look at me."

Amanda blushed. "Well, I—"

"That's all right," Carly said, walking up to her. "I think we can spare Kim a glance. After all, it is her wedding day." She took Amanda's hand. "And ours."

"How about that," Amanda said, squeezing Carly's hand.

* * *

Simon adored women, really he did, but he did not need to be in a room where they were dressing and primping and otherwise carrying on. It was enough to admire and comment upon the results. After all, he'd already seen the dresses. So he went into the small room where the grooms awaited, along with Joel and George and a few other airmen, who were all in their dress uniforms, complete with swords.

Robinson came toward him. "Mr. Cowell—"

"Simon!"

Robinson smiled. "Simon, thank you so much for coming. I know it means a lot to Kimberley."

Simon shook his hand. "You're getting quite a girl there."

"Oh, he knows," Lewis said, walking up behind him.

Simon turned and regarded Lewis and Richardson for a moment. Richardson still leaned on a cane, his lower leg in a cast, but at least he was now upright. "I hope you two know what you're doing," he said.

"We do, sir," Richardson replied, standing up just a bit straighter.

Simon nodded, his eyes narrowed, but said no more. Instead he asked, "So I hear the Yanks are being recalled?"

Cook threw up his hands. "I spend over a year turning this squadron into a well-oiled machine, and now the US Army Air Corps is calling them home and I'm getting raw recruits who spent two weeks flying around over Toronto before heading over here. Of course, they're Canadian, so they've got an advantage—"

"Hey!" Lewis protested.

"—But that's war, I suppose," Cook continued. "The new ones should be here in the next day or so, and then the Americans will be leaving. Probably almost as soon as this lot gets back from their honeymoon."

"Amanda's _furious_," Richardson said. "She's sure to be stateside—the Army won't send her anywhere near the action—so she's stuck training mechanics." He shrugged. "They woulda sent me home anyway," he said, "with this leg and all. But we're hoping they'll let me train at least. Not that there's much to train with; most of the planes are over here."

"I'm sure once you Americans get started we'll have more planes than we know what to do with," Simon replied. "I just hope it's soon."

Ryan came into the room then. "The ladies are ready," he said, "if you are."

"Brother, we've _been_ ready!" Blake said, and the men walked into the chapel, the grooms taking their place at the front, the guests moving into the pews. George sat at the upright piano and began to play something Simon didn't recognize, and he leaned toward Ryan, who answered before he could ask, "It's a spiritual." Jen, Kat and Kelly were standing nearby, and began to sing: _Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you!_

The three brides came in then, Kim first with Carly and Amanda close behind. Robinson's grin threatened to split his face in two, and Simon noticed that Lewis and Richardson greeted their brides with genuine affection; their bizarre scheme just might work. Sligh presided over the simple ceremony; vows and rings were exchanged with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of happiness, with kisses to follow. Then George stood and invited them all to sing along with the processional song. That was the cue for the other pilots of Squadron 11, as well as Captain Johns, to walk over to the doorway of the chapel and make an arch with their swords, traditional for an RAF wedding.

Jen started them off: _I stood on the river of Jordan, to see that ship comin' over, I stood on the river of Jordan to see that ship sail by!_ Some of the folks in the crowd, including Ryan, joined in at the chorus. The couples were all singing and smiling as they walked down the aisle and under the arch, and the glimpses Simon got of the voices of the three pilots made his ears perk up. _O moaner don't you weep when you see that ship come sailin' over, shout, glory hallelujah, when you see that ship sail by!_.

* * *

For Kim, the reception was like being on a merry-go-round, her head was spinning so. All of her favorite people in England were there, and Mandisa had insisted on making the wedding lunch herself, coming out to the base early in the day to get cooking. Gina and Haley helped her, Kim supposed to make up for that incident at Simon's party, though all had long since been forgiven; they were good girls who just let a bad situation get out of hand. So much had happened in the last year, and somehow out of all of it, she'd got Anwar, and she was still pinching herself over it.

Her groom turned to look at her. "Can't quite believe it?"

She shook her head.

He kissed her temple and hugged her close. "It'll be all right tonight," he said, "when we're alone."

After their meal, they all went up to cut the cake with the swords, which Kim found a bit unwieldy for that purpose. There was no silliness with the cake, though Kim suspected that was only because Amanda had threatened bodily harm to Blake should he try anything. Blake believed her, to his credit, and Kim thought that was probably a good start to their married life.

Being a bride, she found herself dancing mostly with men other than her new husband: Randy first, then Simon, Ryan, George, Robinson's buddy Rogers, Lt. Cook, even Capt. Johns. At one point they sang one of their numbers again, the three girls with George on the piano, and when they were done and realized they'd likely never sing like that again, they hugged each other close. It was odd to think this part of her life was finished, but she suspected that helping Jen and George with their act would keep her happy.

And every time she looked for him, there was Anwar, smiling down on her like she was the brightest thing in the room.

There were pictures aplenty, of the three couples, of the brides and the grooms, of all of them with various groups of friends, people drinking toasts to the King, to the Air Force, to President Roosevelt, to the newlyweds, to absent friends. And then they were headed back to the train, back into London, the airmen with precious 48-hour passes. Their friends joined them in the rail car, and there was more champagne and merry making.

Their wedding present from Simon, Ryan and Randy was a three-bedroom suite in the corner of an imposing West End hotel. Jen, George, Simon and Ryan joined them for one last cocktail in a lounge full of ornate Victorian furnishings. It wasn't the sort of place she would have expected to stay in, in the States at least, and she wasn't sure if she had Anwar's uniform or Simon's money and connections to thank for there being no trouble about a few colored people on the premises. But at the moment, she really didn't care.

The rooms were as beautiful as the cocktail lounge had been, three large bedrooms with their own bathrooms opening into a common living room. They wandered around, looking out the windows though there was little to see as the city was dark. Kim found a sealed envelope on the table, and read the note inside to the others: "Dear honeymooners, Given that you likely won't be inclined to leave your room in the next little while, we've arranged for food and drink to be delivered to you at regular intervals and placed just outside the door. So there's no need to worry about sustenance, or to hide any unconventional sleeping arrangements." She stopped then, and smiled at Carly. "I think your boss wrote this note."

"Oh, I know he did," she replied.

Kim continued: "Have a lovely time with no worries. Much love from your friends, Simon, Ryan and Randy."

"See," Carly said, "he even gave himself top billing."

"Well, I don't know about you folks," Blake said, "but I'm ready for my honeymoon to start!" He scooped Amanda into his arms and she whooped in surprise as he carried her over the threshold of one of the bedrooms and tossed her, laughing, onto the bed. "All right, wife," he said, starting to take off his shirt, "let's see those—"

"Blake!" Chris shouted. "Honestly!" As the others watched, Chris set his cane against the wall, pulled Carly into his arms, and limped into the bedroom to deposit her gently on the bed. Blake and Amanda had left their room and were peeking around the corner of the door. Chris put his hands on his hips. "See? That's how a _gentleman_ does things."

Anwar shook his head. "Shall we?" he asked Kim, who nodded. She didn't think it would be graceful—after all, she was no delicate thing—but he swept her up easily, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he walked through the doorway of the bedroom. He turned and smiled at the others, and then kicked the door shut behind them with his foot. "I don't know what those four will be doing on this honeymoon," he said, "but _we_ need some privacy." He smiled down at her, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Kim smiled back. All she could think was how relieved she was that they'd already spent a night together before now—she was glad she'd waited for _him_, but equally glad she _hadn't_ waited for now, or her nerves might have gotten to her in a strange bed after a long emotional day. She sat up and watched him.

"All right, wifey," he said, "let's see—" He paused, biting his lip, and Kim thought he might have been blushing.

She giggled, even though she really didn't want to laugh at her new husband for not being able to go through with his joke. (Husband!) "You can't say it, can you?"

He hung his head, shaking it.

"Come here," she said, unbuttoning her dress. "I'll show them to you anyway."

* * *

Robinson kicked their bedroom door shut, rather emphatically Amanda thought, and the four of them looked at each other.

"Since you put it _that_ way," Blake said.

Carly got up and came to the doorway where the other three were and they stood, staring at each other, nervous again. She smiled, then walked over to Blake and kissed him. She kissed her new husband, then turned and walked back into the bedroom.

Blake stood for a minute, blinking, then followed her example, giving his wife a kiss and going into the other bedroom.

Amanda turned to Chris, who pulled her into a hug.

"Damn, I can't believe we did this," Chris said.

"Me neither," Amanda replied. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." He let her go. "Well."

"Yeah." She patted him on the shoulder. "_Married_."

Chris looked down at his ring, then into his bedroom at Blake. "Married," he said, and smiled.

Amanda walked into the room with Carly, and shut the door behind her.

* * *

"Anwar?"

"Hmm?"

"Two questions."

"Ask away," he said, kissing the top of her head.

"Which Austen heroine am I?"

He chuckled, and she could feel his chest rising and falling under her. "You've been thinking about that all this time?"

"You might as well know right now, I don't let anything go."

"That's all right," he said. "Well, to be honest, at the time I meant that you were Elinor Dashwood, but I've since changed my mind."

"Oh? To what?"

"Well, watching you at Simon's party, and with Katharine later, I realized that you're Anne Eliot. You took care of things so well, Kim. It's admirable."

"Well!" Kim said. "I never would have guessed _that_."

"So, you had another question?"

"Yes. How do I rate against all those white girls?"

"What?"

Kim rolled over on her side, and leaned her head on her hand. "Amanda tells this story about how someone was giving you trouble on the base, about wanting white girls, and you said you didn't know what the fuss was about because they weren't much different."

"Oh," he said. "That was a lie."

Kim's eyes flew open. "You were lying?"

"I figured it was the best way to get Hicks's goat." Anwar shook his head. "What a zero that guy is."

"Troublemaker," she said, poking him in the chest.

"Naw, not me! Him! And he deserved it!" He sat up on his elbows. "I am not ashamed to say, Miss Locke, that I have only been with you. So I can't compare you to anyone."

Kim smiled. "Well, I've only been with you, too. And," she continued, wiggling her left hand, "I'm not Miss Locke anymore."

"How could I forget? Well, Mrs. Robinson, let's see what kind of trouble we can make."

* * *

_27 November 1940_

Forty-eight hours had a funny way of vanishing when you weren't looking; now they were on a train platform, and who knew when they'd see each other again. They were all headed stateside shortly—Kim and Carly in a few days, the airmen soon after. But of course, no one knew where the airmen would be once they returned to the States, or when they would be leaving again. And Atlantic crossings were still dangerous, even in American ships.

They sat crowded around a bench in the station, Kim and Anwar just slightly apart from the other four. Carly and Amanda sat on their husbands' laps, their bodies hiding who was really holding hands with whom. Amanda felt cozy, with Blake's strong arm around her waist, a leg entwined with Chris, Carly's soft hand in hers. "I feel like we just got away with something," she said.

"Don't think we didn't," Carly replied, looking at her ring.

"You girls keep going on about it," Chris said, "and Blake's head will get even bigger than it is now."

Blake looked over to Anwar. "You know who we forgot to drink a toast to? Lt. Cook."

Anwar smiled. "Good man, that Cook," he said. "We'll buy him a drink tonight instead."

As if on cue, the whistle sounded, and they stood, the boys grabbing their bags and Amanda's and heading down the platform toward the RAF car on the train. The three girls walked arm in arm, Amanda in the middle, and when they got to the compartment door she hugged Kim close, kissing her on the lips and whispering in her ear, "Take care of my girl, you hear?"

"You know I will," Kim said, hugging back.

She turned to Carly then, willing herself not to cry, trying not to linger in the kiss. "I'll always be your girl," she said.

"And I'm yours," Carly replied, then pulled back and put her hands on Amanda's face. "All right, off with you."

Amanda nodded, then let Blake help her up into the carriage. She watched as Blake said his goodbyes to the other two girls, and Chris hugged Kim. When he kissed Carly, it was almost like Amanda was kissing her, herself, as though Chris was her proxy, as he had been so many times this past year, and would be in the future. Seeing Robinson with Kim—finally!—was lovely too, as he held her close and kissed her for all he was worth.

The whistle sounded again, and Blake leaned out of the carriage. "Hey!" he shouted. "Honeymoon's over!"

They laughed, and Chris climbed into the door, Robinson behind him. As the train pulled away, the four of them leaned out the windows, waving to Kim and Carly as long as they could see them. When they sat back down again, Amanda was next to Blake on the seat, facing Chris and Robinson. Blake put his arm around her, tucking her head onto his shoulder. "Go ahead, sweetheart," he whispered. "You cry for all of us."

And so she did.

* * *

_1 December 1940_

Kim looked around at the bare walls of the room she'd shared with Jen and Kat for the past year. All their belongings were packed; Kelly and Tamyra were to move in that night. Randy had decided on continuing with just two lead singers, with more small moments for the various dancers, which made him very popular among the company. The new choreographer, Mary, brought some dancers with her from the states to fill the ranks. Mrs. Studdard had made them breakfast in the kitchen, though it was closer to lunchtime by the time they woke up, as there had been a going away party at the after-hours club after their final show the night before.

She pulled her wedding photo out of her bag, staring at it again, the six of them all together. It had all happened so quickly it felt unreal—proposed to, married within a month, and now he was gone, likely for the duration. When she and Anwar were together, Kat and Daughtry had always been their companions, and she'd resented how her love had to be hidden in comparison to theirs. But now she could see how open they really had been during what could only be referred to as their courtship, compared to how carefully the other two couples hid theirs. Cleverly, too, as no observer would think the marriages were a sham, devised to keep them together and allow Carly to emigrate to the states with all the rights of a war bride. And yet after watching the four of them interact, Kim wondered if it really mattered whose names were on which marriage certificate, after all.

"Don't be sad," Kat said as she came into the room. "New beginnings! And you and Jen will be close to each other."

"You'll write often, won't you?" Kim said, taking her hand. "Let us know how it's going?"

"Of course!" she replied. "Other than my parents I don't have many other people to write, and they aren't enthusiastic about the girl they sent to Catholic school going off to work with a rabbi!" She laughed. "But it's the right thing to do."

Chik Easy and EJ came in then to fetch their trunks, Corey Clark just behind them; the three would bring Carly and Kim's belongings to the station, and Kat's to the old settlement house Rabbi Yamin used as his headquarters. The Smith boys had remained scarce after Jen threw them over, and Kim didn't blame them; too many memories for them in this room, she suspected. The girls were leaving their costumes behind, of course, though Randy had insisted they keep the fezzes as a keepsake.

Kim was surprised to see Ryan and Simon in the sitting room, Carly with them.

"Of course we're taking you to tea," Simon said. "A very smart ladies' tea, hats and gloves and all that. How else would you say goodbye to London?"

It was fun, too, sitting at the table, the six of them, and Kim could see her new life in front of her even as the old one was receding. There was tea in pretty little china cups—and living with Carly, she knew she'd continue to drink tea, even if they had to scrounge to find something drinkable—and tiny sandwiches of ham and cucumber, and pastries and scones. She'd got used to the meat pies, the mushy peas, even the warm pints of beer. They'd have to return, she and Anwar, for their children must see this.

"Now, Ryan and I are relying on you both to send us many letters so we don't get too lonely," Simon was saying. He smiled at Ryan, and Kim sensed them all filling in, "for each other" at the end of his sentence.

"Of course we will," Kat said. "I think we'll all be living on letters through this war."

"How long will you be in London, Ryan?" Jen asked.

"Until we come into the war, I expect," he said, "and possibly after that, since I've been here, I have contacts here, and whatever we do to regain Europe would happen from here. Besides," he said, "Simon won't be gone the entire time." He smiled across the table. "But in the meantime, we're going home to Los Angeles for Christmas."

"My goodness!" Kat said. "I'd almost forgot Christmas was coming. Although I suppose I won't be celebrating it much, being with Jews and all."

"I'm sure you'll find a way," Jen said. "And it's the spirit that counts, anyway."

George met them at the station, with a bundle of food from Mrs. Studdard, biscuits and ham and cheese, and Randy was there, too. Simon was the last to embrace Kim, and he put a flat package in her hands. "I know we've had our ups and downs, Miss Locke," he said, "but aside from the professional, I just wanted to say how impressed I am, and always have been, with your poise and common sense. The performing world's loss, but the legal world's gain, I'm very sure."

Kim grinned widely. "Why, thank you Simon. Thank you so much. Now, you take care of yourself and your man over there."

Simon looked over at Ryan, who was talking to Carly, and smiled. "I will. And you keep watch over Carly for me? Make sure she wears her galoshes and all that."

"Of course."

"Right. I'll see you soon," he replied, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and helped her up into the carriage.

Kim waited to open her package until they were well underway to Southampton. Carly had her own package—a book and some technical tools. Jen and Kim's packages looked the same, and when they opened them, they found reel-to-reel tapes with all the recordings each of them had made for Simon's show; Kim suspected he'd done the same for Kat as well. Jen showed her Simon's inscription to her—"You have always made a joyful noise"—and said, smiling, "I bet Ryan told him to write that."

On the inside cover of Kim's, Simon had written:

> To Kimberley,   
> Please don't stop singing entirely.  
> With great respect and affection,  
> Simon Cowell.

 

"Well," Kim said, blinking back tears, "don't that beat all."

* * *

_14 December 1940_

The British Army moved against the Italians in North Africa, pushing them back from the Egyptian border across Libya. Simon had a week from the time he got the call; he'd be landing in Egypt with the Australian forces. He and his troupe would be well behind the lines, but still, this was war.

Simon had decided to pack up his flat and put everything in storage at his mother's house for the duration. There were still occasional attacks in London, and he'd rather just not worry about it. By December he was living out of a small bag in Ryan and Joel's flat and working long hours putting together the traveling company; the only revue he didn't poach from was Randy's, and that was mostly because it was cast with Americans.

Ryan rearranged his schedule to spend as much time with Simon as possible before he left. On his final night, they went out to dinner with Randy, Joel and small David. Nothing fancy; they gathered at Simon's local, the first place he'd ever taken Ryan, and then they went to the Pyramid to see the new revue, where Simon pronounced Kelly and Tamyra "fantastic." After the show, Joel and David said they were going to bunk elsewhere to give Ryan and Simon some privacy but Ryan said he wanted them there, so they all headed back to Ryan and Joel's flat.

In the morning, Simon put on his new uniform, crisp and sharp. "You look very handsome," Ryan said, standing behind him and looking at him in the mirror. "Very much the dashing hero."

"Nah," Simon said, meeting Ryan's eyes. "I'm too old for that."

The four of them had pancakes for breakfast, and everyone was as merry as possible, grinning and laughing and enjoying two week's worth of butter and sugar all at once. Then Simon looked up at the clock and said, casually, "Well, I have a train to catch."

Joel stood and shook Simon's hand. "It's been a pleasure."

Simon smiled. "Same here. You'll look after him, won't you?"

"Of course. Always do." He put the back of his hand to his mouth, as if hiding his words from Ryan. "And if he steps out on you, I'll take care of it."

Simon giggled. "Well, ah, I don't know if your wife's permission still applies, but …"

Joel held up a hand. "No, no." He looked down at Ryan and smiled. "We just weren't meant to be."

"I kept trying to tell you that," Ryan replied.

"Besides," Joel went on, "I've had my man-of-the-war."

Simon rolled his eyes at Joel as he pulled small David into a hug. "I don't want to see you in a uniform any time soon, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," David said. "Thanks for everything, really."

"And keep writing to my mother. She gets lonely."

"I will," David said, chuckling.

"Right, well," Simon said, turning to Ryan. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Joel and David clearing the table and retreating to the kitchen.

"Just come back," Ryan said. He was looking Simon in the eye, unafraid, even though his green eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"If I have to move heaven and earth," Simon replied. "And you, don't take any unnecessary chances, hear me?"

One corner of Ryan's mouth drew up. "I won't. I'm not looking for anything now, you know?"

"Yeah," Simon whispered. "Yeah, I do." He pulled Ryan into a kiss, one of those long kisses, burning all of it into his memory and Ryan's. "I love you."

Ryan nodded. "I love you too."

Simon picked up his duffel and put on his cap. He didn't trust himself to say more, but just nodded at Ryan and went out the door, rushing downstairs to find a cab. As they loaded his duffel into the car, the cabbie said, "That for you, sir?"

"What?" Simon asked. The cabbie was pointing at Ryan's window, where a hand waved a white handkerchief. Simon leaned his head back and laughed, long and hard, and saluted Ryan before hopping into the cab.

"Paddington," he said. He reached into his shoulder bag to check his itinerary, and discovered an additional envelope. Inside was a picture of him, Ryan, Paula and Randy at Paula's wedding, along with a letter on Ryan's stationery:

> Darling,  
> Since we can't write any love letters while the war is on, I'll put it down now, and you can fill in my future letters with these words, such as: I never loved a man at all before I loved you. …

Simon wiped away the few tears that spilled down his cheeks. This was a letter best read when alone; later tonight, perhaps, when trains and ships and duty were taking him miles away from London, from Ryan, from home.

* * *

Ryan went into the bedroom to tidy it up—anything to keep from thinking too much—and noticed an envelope sticking out of his copy of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_. Surprised, he opened it to find a picture from Paula's wedding and a letter in Simon's hand:

> Darling,  
> I've never written a love letter before, and the advice I got was about needing the right kind of pen. But I think it's likely more about needing the right kind of man. …

Ryan went out into the main room. "Joel?" he asked.

"Yeah?" Joel replied, poking his head out of the kitchen.

He waved the envelope. "Did you—did you tell Simon to do this, as well as telling me?" Ryan asked.

"Oh," Joel said. "Well, I just figured, you couldn't write a real letter to him with the censors reading all your mail, right? And let me tell you, a man needs letters like that when he's alone. And I had the picture—I didn't think anyone else would know, looking at it. But you would."

Ryan looked down and shook his head. "I've been trying so hard not to—"

Joel walked over to Ryan and hugged him, motioning to David to do the same. "It's okay," he said, rubbing Ryan's head. "You're with family now."

Ryan felt the tears flow, and relaxed against the other two men. "Damn this war," he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Now, Voyager_ (dir.) is a melodrama starring Bette Davis and Charles Boyer.
> 
> Hitler postponed the planned invasion of Britain—Operation Barbarossa—in late October 1940, and the bombings decreased in early November. But they didn't stop entirely—a bombing on 14 November destroyed Coventry Cathedral, and a major raid on 28 December damaged St. Paul's—and Hitler didn't completely give up on Barbarossa until February 1941.
> 
> In early December, British troops landed in north Africa to start a campaign against the Italians, who held Libya and had attacked Egypt. Those are the troops Simon will be entertaining.
> 
> All of the details of the American pilots in Britain have been changed for the purposes of this story—more on that in the commentary—which includes their recall in the fall of 1940, though I anchored that timing to the commencement of the draft in the United States.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming.

_6 October 1945_

Ryan Seacrest stood out on the deck in the early morning mist, staring out at the ocean, a breeze stirring his hair.  He'd never sailed into California before—hadn't been back to the states at all in almost three years now. How different this was than all those Atlantic crossings; he wasn't even sure California was home anymore. But it sure looked pretty: the sun rising behind the mountainous coastline, the cluster of city buildings, the Golden Gate Bridge glowing red in the light.

He rubbed his chin absently. Seemed odd to be clean-shaven, since he'd been living in fatigues for more than three years, but in the six weeks since the surrender he'd been watching official ceremonies, slowly making his way back to the States. He'd even got a proper haircut while he was in Honolulu for the special Pearl Harbor broadcast a week ago. And safely in his pocket was a wire from Simon, saying he'd be there when the ship docked in San Francisco.

Blessed, blessed sabbatical. Ryan was taking three months off, and yes, some of it would be spent working up a pitch and outline for another book, and there was Kelly and David Cook's wedding in Toronto in early November, but Ryan wanted to spend as much time as humanly possible just sitting in the same room with Simon Cowell. Hell, being on the same continent as Simon would be an improvement. They'd managed a few rendezvous in the four years since Ryan left London, mostly in bits of Asia that the British had managed to hold, or north Africa, or one blissful week in Honolulu. But now it was over, and he just wanted his man back.

"That's quite a view. Coffee?" asked Joel, coming up behind him. Once Ryan took the cup Joel reached into one of the pockets of his field jacket. "Also got us some muffins."

"Thanks," Ryan said.

"Can't believe it's over," Joel said. "Almost like there's something missing."

"I'm sure we can fill the space," Ryan replied.

"Ten years, brother. I've been married for fifteen years and I've only been home for half of that."

"Wow," Ryan said—for it _had_ been almost ten years earlier that he and Joel had set off for Spain. "I'm sorry, Joel. I've been dragging you around—"

"No, no," Joel said. "Wouldn't've missed it for the world. Besides, I would have been gone the last four years anyhow. Way I figure it, we can just skip all that young couple squabbling and get right to the baby making."

Ryan laughed and shook his head. "What would I have done without you?"

"I don't know, brother," Joel said, slinging an arm around Ryan's shoulders. "I don't know."

Ryan and Joel got two surprises once their ship docked. Ryan was looking around for Simon when he saw a different familiar face. He tapped Joel's shoulder. "I believe you know that woman."

Joel turned and broke into the biggest grin Ryan had ever seen on him, just in time for the woman to leap into his arms. "I thought you were meeting me in LA!" he said.

"I couldn't wait!"

They kissed, so passionately that Ryan averted his eyes, but then he wasn't sure where to look, as there were couples like this all around him. He couldn't help but be jealous. He still didn't see Simon, but even if he did, Simon couldn't welcome him like this. Not in a public place.

"Sorry," she said as Joel set her down.

"Please," Ryan said, gesturing around them. "Seems to be the done thing."

"We can help you look for him," Joel said. "I am a lot taller." He craned his head around.

"No, you should go. Enjoy this. I'll be fine. I'll see you at the wedding anyhow." He smiled, though he knew it was just a bit forced.

She cocked her head, then gave him a hug that he happily returned. Pulling back, she said, "Thanks for taking care of him, Mr. Seacrest."

Ryan smiled, genuinely now, at the name she used for him, which had been inspired by the southern manners he'd displayed when he first arrived in Los Angeles, which the western and more informal McHales made much fun of. "It would have been my pleasure, Mrs. McHale," he replied, "but I assure you, he took care of me."

She smiled up at Joel. "That sounds like him. Well, see you in a few weeks!

"You bet," Ryan said, and waved after them as they walked away. He walked toward the fleet of waiting taxicabs, still looking for his own welcoming party, when two young men in British Army uniforms appeared.

"Mr. Seacrest?" the first one asked, McPartlin by his nametag though Ryan didn't know British Army insignia well enough to guess the rank.

The other, Donnelly, replied, "Major Cowell sent us."

Ryan nodded, smiling, though his heart sank. So, no dockside reunion after all.

"This all you have?" asked McPartlin, indicating Ryan's case.

"Yes, and I'll carry it," Ryan said.

"The car is this way," said Donnelly with a sweep of his hand.

Ryan sat in the back of a sedan and watched the city go by, wondering why it took two men to pick him up when clearly one would have done. "So, how are you connected with Major Cowell?" Ryan asked, wanting to fill the silence with something other than his thoughts.

"We've been touring with his revue," answered McPartlin.

"We're a comedy team," said Donnelly.

"Came to America to try our luck."

"Major Cowell thinks we have a real chance."

"I see," replied Ryan. "Been working together long?"

"Years."

"Since we were kids."

"Used to host at a music hall."

"Major Cowell was impressed with our work."

Ryan's face must have given him away in that moment, as McPartlin quickly added, "Not _that_ impressed, Mr. Seacrest."

"No need to worry," said Donnelly.

Ryan wondered what Simon had said to them, though listening to them talk he could sense why Simon might have felt safe in confiding in them. But he didn't have time to react to that tidbit, as the sedan came to a stop. He looked up and saw they were not at the train station, as Ryan was vaguely expecting, but at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel.

"Your case, sir," said McPartlin, lifting it out of the trunk.

"The key to your room," said Donnelly, pressing it into his palm.

"Number 605."

"You can go right up."

They smiled, got back into the sedan, and drove away, leaving Ryan vaguely dazed on the sidewalk. He stared at the key in his hand until a red cap tried to take his case for him, startling him into action, and he went directly up to the room.

* * *

Simon Cowell stood in the front bedroom of the corner suite, smoking and trying not to pace. It had all been over for almost two months now, but he still couldn't quite believe it, and it wouldn't be true until Ryan was standing in front of him again. He'd done very little since the end of the war himself—programmed a special broadcast for the BBC in London, organized a few concerts for widows and orphans, the expected things. But other than seeing his mother, it had been a bit lacking. He'd lived in London for almost thirty years, and Ryan had been there for only one of them, yet it all felt rather flat and lifeless without him. It certainly didn't feel like home.

Then Ryan said he was taking three months off, and Simon immediately arranged to do the same. Post-war London was a bit much anyway, crumbling and grey; he needed some of that ridiculous American sunshine Ryan was always on about. He'd bought a car and a pile of maps, and wondered if Ryan would be interested in touring around the country a bit after Cook's wedding, or before, or both. He was very sure that in a nation as vast and varied as America there was plenty of untapped talent just waiting to be discovered and developed by Simon Cowell. And even though he'd often made fun of Ryan's knowledge of inessentials, who could be a better guide to the workings of Hollywood than he?

The boys he'd sent after Ryan had called when the ship came in, and Simon had ordered lunch for he and Ryan then, as well as setting up a few other things. And just as he was beginning to wonder where Ryan was, the door opened. Simon stubbed out his cigarette and quickly checked himself in the mirror before walking into the sitting room.

Ryan was standing at the table about ten feet away, his back to Simon, and Simon almost stopped breathing. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to calm down, and when he opened them again he knew just what to say. "Looks like you still need that new case."

Ryan turned around slowly, and cleared his throat. "Oh, this? Got me through the war all right," he replied.

"Thank God for that," Simon said, his voice cracking just slightly.

Simon wasn't sure who moved first—probably they both did—but suddenly they were in each other's arms, kissing like mad. Simon could feel wetness on his cheeks but wasn't sure if they were his tears or Ryan's, or if it even mattered.

"Sorry about the escort," Simon was muttering between kisses. "Didn't trust myself not to do something rash when I saw you."

"S'ok," Ryan said. "Dunno if I could've held it together either."

After some minutes they pulled apart reluctantly, needing air, and while Simon's hands sat firmly at the small of Ryan's back, Ryan put his on Simon's face, brushing away tears with his thumbs, and Simon let himself just stare into those green eyes.

"So how would a week or so in San Francisco suit you?" Simon asked.

"Very well," Ryan replied.

He smiled. "The old gang are waiting for us in Chicago—everyone's mustered out except Cook, of course. But we can take our time getting there. I've bought a car and everything."

"I like the sound of that," Ryan said. Then he pulled back a bit. "I have to call—"

"Your mother, yes," Simon said, slipping out of Ryan's arms. "I put in a trunk call as soon as your ship landed. She's waiting for you." There was a knock at the door. "Ah, and here's lunch."

Ryan walked over to the phone, smiling at Simon. "You've thought of everything," he said.

"I've tried," Simon replied, walking to the door of the suite. "But I'm sure you'll let me know what's missing."

Simon took the tray and tipped the waiter, then brought it back over to Ryan, who was sitting on the couch staring at the phone as though he didn't remember how to use it. Simon set the tray down on the coffee table—a hamburger for Ryan, fish and chips for himself, coffee for both, and a slice of apple pie. "I know, bit typical," Simon said as he sat down next to Ryan. "But who cares?"

Ryan sneaked a chip from Simon's plate. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," Simon said, kissing him on the temple. "Now call your mother."

Ryan picked up the receiver—he didn't need to say anything, as the hotel operator was standing by—and there was a pause while the call went through. Suddenly he grabbed hold of Simon's hand, and Simon squeezed back.

"Hi Mom," Ryan said. "I'm home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the war, end of the story. General historical commentary to come!


End file.
